


I'll Fall for You Soon Enough

by hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - No Fillory (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Margo Needs a Fucking Drink, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romantic Fluff, Shameless Smut, She's not equipped to handle these emotional gymnastics, Stupid Boys Being the Stupidest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 66,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: Eliot and Quentin are pining fiercely for each other. They play spin the bottle. Then they're friends with benefits? They don't have a fucking clue. They're both total disasters. Everyone will get a big happily ever after.~Tall guys. It was a thing.He didn’t know how much of a thing it was until he’d wandered through the community garden in Manhattan, stumbling out of the cold, leafless bushes and into the bright, warm summer day at Brakebills. He’d felt a thrill when Eliot stepped up to him, cigarette in hand, standing just a little too close and looking him up and down like he was deciding whether not to approve of Quentin’s existence. Eliot’s cool disinterest and his frank assessment of Quentin that very first day… well, that was also a thing. He’d gotten a bit more mentally adventurous in the years since he’d had his secret crush on Colin, and that night, Quentin had an elaborate fantasy involving Eliot deciding whether or not he got to stay at Brakebills by putting him through an increasingly complex series of sexual trials, culminating in Eliot fucking him against the brick wall where he’d been lying out like a bored supermodel the first time Quentin had seen him.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 102
Kudos: 315





	1. I Found Me a Hopeless Case

~Quentin~

Quentin shot a card out of his hand, letting it float for a moment before he made it disappear. It reappeared in his shirt sleeve, and he pulled it out. He placed it on the tip of his finger and watched it spin. Then he duplicated it, watching as the cards formed new designs—suits he’d never seen before, all pulled from the recesses of his mind. Leaning against the wall of the window nook, he threw all the cards into the air at once, catching them with his magic and holding them aloft. The cards rotated until the lined up with each other, circling and creating a wall with a dome above it. He held it until he started to feel the magic dissipating. 

It was fucking cool. And he was good at it. But he was still _undetermined_.

Of course he was the guy who got into magic school, and they couldn’t figure out what the fuck type of magic he was supposed to be good at. He had managed to help Alice break into the Physical Kids Cottage with her light-bendy thing the night before, which was great, but it was definitely _her_ magic that did the door-burning thing, not his. It was depressing as fuck, being able to do magic and not knowing exactly where he fit in. And that was just Quentin’s life, wasn’t it? Depressing, even at Brakebills. 

He drew the cards back to his hand and shuffled them.

It was fine—it was _good_ —that he was a physical kid. That did fit. It felt… right. He got to live at the Cottage now, which meant he didn’t have to room with Penny. And Penny was a total dick. And his friends were here. That was like, completely amazing, especially since Julia was hyper-focused on her meta-comp spells and the knowledge students, who were all boring and quiet and decidedly unlike Eliot and Margo. 

He shot another card in the air and watched it spin, pulling it back to his hand and tossing another one out. 

Living here, well. That came with its own set of complications. Because not only was Quentin’s life just a little bit depressing all the fucking time, Quentin was also a dumbass. Or maybe it was Quentin’s brain that was the dumbass since it had fixated on—

“Hey, Q.” A warm hand on his shoulder. 

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and glanced up, flicking his eyes immediately back to his cards. “Hey, um. Hey, Eliot.”

“Hungover?”

“No, no. I, uh, did that hangover spell you taught me. Worked great.” He threw a card in the air and spun it again, bringing it back to land on top of the other cards. 

Eliot’s thumb made a circle right at the edge of his collarbone, and he suppressed a shiver. “You just seem out of sorts.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Just thinking about being, uh, undetermined. Same shit circling in my head for the past twenty-four hours.” He glanced up at Eliot again, which was a mistake. His eyes looked ocean-green today, and they were trained on Quentin. “Same shit. Different day. That’s me.”

“You’ve got us. You’re a physical kid. That’s all you need to know right now.” Eliot’s thumb moved again, and heat started to rise over Quentin’s chest and into his cheeks.

“Yeah, I guess.” Quentin might not be staring into Eliot’s face, but now his gaze was fixed on El’s current fashion ensemble, which included a pale purple button down with embroidered designs, a chambray vest, and slim green trousers cuffed at the ankles. Eliot would probably say it was ‘weekend casual wear’ just because he wasn’t wearing a tie. He looked even slimmer and taller than normal, all long, lean lines and miles of leg.

“I was going to make breakfast for me and Margo. You want in? Your girl is still asleep, but we can make a plate for her.”

“My girl?” Quentin looked up again, brows knitted together. “Who?”

“Alice?”

“Oh. She’s a friend. She’s not my ‘girl,’ and women aren’t property, anyway, so.” Quentin shrugged. “Also, I’m pretty sure Kady slept in her room last night. So maybe you should ask Kady if you ought to save a plate for ‘her girl.’” That last part came out a bit caustic, and Eliot’s hand fell away. Shit. Well. 

“Okay, then just breakfast for you then,” Eliot said, his voice pitched a little high. Quentin frowned. “Egg white and brie omelet with English muffins.”

“That sounds incredible, El. Maybe not enough to like, dissuade all of my fears but. It’ll help.” He tried to lift his voice a little so he didn’t come off as a baleful asshole like one hundred percent of the time. 

Quentin took the deck of cards in one hand and twisted them with a tut, leaving half the cards spinning in one direction and then the other. He could feel Eliot watching him. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” When he looked up, Eliot had turned away and was headed to the kitchen, where Margo was sitting, nursing a cup of coffee.

It would be easier if Eliot weren’t his friend. But he couldn’t exactly go back in time and make Eliot _not_ his friend. And he didn’t want to. He just… he wished his brain hadn’t decided to fixate on Eliot. Because as far as crushes went, it was pretty fucking hopeless. And he’d been at war with himself over it the second he laid eyes on Eliot Waugh. 

Quentin liked tall guys. It had started with Colin Woodley, long-time member of the fantasy writing club at Quentin’s high school. He had long blond hair that he’d dyed purple, really big green eyes, and a very _cool_ collection of vintage Nirvana shirts. He also wasn’t terrible at coming up with shit for their D&D campaigns. Quentin liked him, but he couldn’t really put his finger on why. He was a little boring, and he wasn’t that funny. But there was something _about_ him. After a few months of being friends with Colin, Quentin’s brain filled in the blanks with a sex dream where Colin loomed over him and kissed him quite thoroughly and held him in his arms, making Quentin feel small and needed, all while jerking him off with his lovely. large hands. 

And that’s how Quentin knew he wasn’t straight—tall guys. It was a thing. 

He didn’t know how _much_ of a thing it was until he’d wandered through the community garden in Manhattan, stumbling out of the cold, leafless bushes and into the bright, warm summer day at Brakebills. He’d felt a thrill when Eliot stepped up to him, cigarette in hand, standing just a little too close and looking him up and down like he was deciding whether not to approve of Quentin’s existence. Eliot’s cool disinterest and his frank assessment of Quentin that very first day… well, that was also a thing. He’d gotten a bit more mentally _adventurous_ in the years since he’d had his secret crush on Colin, and that night, Quentin had an elaborate fantasy involving Eliot deciding whether or not he got to stay at Brakebills by putting him through an increasingly complex series of sexual trials, culminating in Eliot fucking him against the brick wall where he’d been lying out like a bored supermodel the first time Quentin had seen him. 

He was tall, _so._

And. He was gorgeous, like an actual Greek god who just stepped down to Earth from Olympus. That was like, maybe a little dramatic for Quentin to think, but it was his fifth week at Brakebills, and he’d seen Eliot in _just a towel_ four times now. So, like, maybe he wasn’t an expert on Eliot’s body, but it felt like an accurate comparison.

He’d more than half-expected that Eliot would never speak to him again after that first day because Quentin was, you know, a total dork, and he’d never been friends with anyone remotely like Eliot. He was witty and sophisticated and stylish and elegant and impossibly beautiful. And he was actually _kind_ after Quentin’s exam, even going so far as to introduce Quentin to Margo and take him around campus before finding him something magic to smoke. (Turns out it was just weed. But. That was fine.) Margo had even _implied_ Eliot had said he was cute, which was—well, it was something Quentin had thought a lot about. He’d decided Margo was probably teasing him.

Quentin tossed the cards out of his hand again and caught them with his magic, arranging them with some of the simple telekinetic movement sequences that Eliot had taught him. 

“You want coffee, Q? Or a mimosa?” Eliot’s voice was warm and casual. He could hear Margo chatting with Eliot in low tones.

“Um. Both.” He looked through the cards at Eliot’s lean form. He was utterly at home in the kitchen, wearing the black apron that Margo had given him for his birthday. _Magicians do it with their fingers_ , it read. And God, if only Quentin could experience that firsthand. 

_Stop it_ , he told his brain. 

He tried to draw his eyes away from the lines of Eliot’s body, his deft hands, the sure touch of his magic as he lifted a bottle of champagne and uncorked it with a simple tut. 

“Mimosas coming up,” Eliot said. “In approximately three minutes.”

“I’m, um, looking forward to it.”

Eliot wanting to be Quentin’s friend was somewhat less confusing than Eliot finding him attractive, but only by a slight margin. It was something he could accept, at least. Quentin, as usual, kept his fantasies where they belonged—in his fucked up head. He definitely returned to those daydreams, especially focusing on how untouchable Eliot seemed, how Quentin could never possibly be _worthy_. It turned Quentin on a _lot_. There was really no rhyme or reason to desire. So, that was that. He was friends with Eliot and had a stupid, silly crush on him, and Eliot would never fucking know. 

Eliot, who was making him breakfast. Eliot who was bringing him a drink and placing it in his hand with a pleased little smile on his face.

Things were fine. It was all fine. Almost all the way fine. 

There wasn’t anything about it that wasn’t fine, really. He was just… being dramatic. Catastrophizing. He was definitely excellent at that shit. 

When Eliot summoned Quentin to the table, he laid out a spread of omelets and fresh fruit for Quentin and Margo, and he sat down next to Quentin, handing him a mimosa and then a coffee with exactly the right amount of cream. His finger lingered against Quentin’s for just a moment, sending what felt like sparks along the length of Quentin’s arm. Margo looked between the two of them and pursed her lips, but she didn’t say anything. 

“Dig in. The brie is divine.” Eliot was close enough that Quentin could smell his cologne, which was spicy and woodsy and probably sixty times as expensive as the crap Quentin had but didn’t really use.

Quentin smiled and let himself just look at Eliot for a moment, maybe too long, but Eliot was looking back. And it was nice. This was nice. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Christ on a goddamn bike,” Margo said. “Seriously.”

“What?” Eliot asked.

“Nothing,” Margo said, throwing her hands up. “Absolutely nothing.”

***

After he’d helped dry the dishes, mostly so he could stand next to Eliot as he washed with the aid of his telekinesis, Quentin went back to practicing with his cards on the couch. He started an elaborate shuffle he’d learned from one of his favorite Youtube channel. Eliot sauntered over to the couch and sat down next to him, about a foot of space between the two of them. Quentin’s stomach swooped like it always did when Eliot was this close. He didn’t look over at El, though, because it was just… sometimes, it was _too much_ to look at Eliot for too long, and he’d done his fair share this morning. Also, he didn’t want to drop his cards and look like a fucking idiot.

“Those cards look different.” He could feel Eliot watching him, which gave Quentin that same glittering, overheated feeling as Eliot’s hand on his shoulder, thumb moving in light circles. “What enchantment are you using?”

“I’m using Popper 21 and one of the tuts Julia taught me—the um, light illusion casting that works for like, changing pictures in books or whatever. It changes the images on the cards to look like what I, uh, visualize. I was never, like, really artistically inclined, but I loved the illustrations in the Fillory books, so that’s what they look like.” 

“Huh. Cool,” Margo said, looking up from her (illegal) phone. “That looks like the Jane Chatwin illustration from the first book, the one where she steps through the clock for the first time. But like the first edition illustrations, not the ones in the paperback.” 

Quentin nodded. “That’s what I was thinking of. Good eye.” He floated the card over to Margo with a flick of his wrist.

“You’re both nerds,” Eliot said indulgently. Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin could see that El was still watching him. _God._.

“You’re just jealous I know how to read,” Margo said. 

“I read when it’s important to read. Which is not frequently,” Eliot said. “It takes time to look this good. I can’t go around straining my eyes in the dark, practically begging the universe for premature forehead wrinkles.”

Quentin snorted, and Margo flicked the card back towards Quentin, letting him catch it with his magic. “You like to play dumb and pretty,” Quentin said. “But like, we all know you’ve been up late every night doing research for your thesis.”

“How do you know I’m not caught up in an illicit affair with a traveling magic dignitary with a huge—”

Margo let out a peal of laughter, her face split with a bright smile. “Because you haven’t been boning anyone since—”

_Since when?_

“Well,” Eliot said quickly, “I want to graduate. Be a famed magician, open my own line of vintage stores and artisan liquor shops, get a grand penthouse apartment. I need somewhere to channel my massive intellectual prowess.”

“As long as your penthouse has room enough for your massive ego. And your massive dick.”

Quentin swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. _Don’t think about Eliot’s dick. Don’t think about Eliot’s dick._ He repeated it like a mantra, trying to focus on the cards. 

“A challenge for any realtor, Bambi. None of it means I’m going to turn into an intellectual. I’m a refined aesthete, and I intend to continue my fabulous lifestyle after Brakebills, which means I do have to _graduate_ from Brakebills.”

“Nerd,” Quentin said. 

Eliot let out a huff, and Quentin saw his hands moving out of the corner of his eye. He could feel the weight of Eliot’s magic joining his; he could almost taste it, light and sharp and powerful, filling his senses and sending a thrill down his spine, tinging at the tips of his fingers and toes. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw half of his cards leave the circle of his own casting, shuffling into a half circle shape and hanging just above Quentin’s head. The cards hovered for a moment and then shifted before they flew at his face and landed over his shoulders in a cascade. 

“Hey—” Quentin started, breaking his concentration and looking over at Eliot, who wore a small, pleased smile. “You can’t just, just—do that—I was practicing—”

Eliot raised his hands and performed a quick sequence of movements (so fucking graceful—and _strong_ ), gathering up the cards in the air again and organizing them by suit, fixing a few of the cards that were bent or worn as he moved through them with his magic. When the cards settled together, Eliot floated them gently into Quentin’s lap. “Sorry, my fingers slipped,” Eliot said. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t do it again. You’ve been warned—”

“Or what?” Eliot leaned in closer, and Quentin’s heart started beating a little wildly. 

“Okay—as much as I love extended foreplay… Mama’s got an appointment for a Brazilian blowout at Salon de Ciel in Midtown. El, you said you wanted to come when I mentioned it—”

“Extended _what?_ ” Quentin looked between Eliot and Margo. What the fuck was she talking about? And what was a ‘Brazilian blowout?’

“Oh, I actually have to do some work for Lipson’s seminar—”

“Oookay,” Margo said, drawing out the ‘O,’ hands on her hips. She had Eliot fixed in her gaze. “You know, I’m going to that salon that serves cocktails.”

“Next weekend, my love,” Eliot said lightly. 

Margo seemed to make a decision. She walked over to Eliot and popped a kiss on Eliot’s cheek before ruffling Quentin’s hair. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said, gathering up her bag and slinging a jacket over her shoulders. “Which is to say, channel your inner Margo and do exactly what I’d do, you silly bitches.”

Quentin started his shuffling again, watching Margo as she walked away. “What do you think she means?”

“Search me. I have no idea.” Eliot leaned back and put his long legs on the coffee table, body angled toward Quentin’s. 

There was a stumbling sound on the stairs, and a very hungover Alice appeared, groaning at the light coming in from the windows. Her hair was staticky and haloed around her face; the eye makeup Margo had forced her to wear was seriously smudged. “Kady said you have a hangover spell,” she croaked. There was a hickey on her neck. 

Quentin gave Eliot a look with his eyebrows raised. “Not my girl,” he leaned in and whispered.

Eliot stifled a laugh. “I sure do, honey. And a potion. Though I don’t know if Margo had the last of it.”

“Seriously, whatever is fine. What did you put in those drinks last night. I’m not an experienced drinker.” Alice shuffled over to the sofa and crumpled down onto the coffee table while Eliot performed his simple hangover spell. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking a little brighter.

“Are you two a thing?” Eliot asked casually. 

Alice turned a deep pink. “Maybe?”

“Godspeed. You caught yourself a wild one,” Eliot said. He walked over and dug around the bar, handing her a bottle. “This should help the hangover exhaustion. And the… soreness.”

“Fuck you, Eliot. Also, thanks.” She snorted a little. “Am I ever going to get anything without you giving me shit about this?”

“Absolutely not, darling.”

When she hoisted herself back up the stairs, Quentin started laughing, and Eliot cracked a mischievous grin. “Didn’t mean to assume, Q. Guess I was wrong.”

“Guess so,” Quentin said. “Awfully heteronormative of you.”

Eliot smiled at him, bright, sitting back down on the couch next to him, close and warm and present. “Show me how you do the illusion casting again.”

“I thought you, uh, had to work, since you’re a work nerd,” Quentin said, shuffling the cards again and throwing them out so they hung in the air. 

“Mm, not for a while,” Eliot said, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back. His hair fell over his forehead in a riot of curls. “C’mon. Show me again, and I’ll make you a custom drink that reflects the flavor of your magic.”

Quentin wasn’t getting any better offers that afternoon. He wasn’t sure that any better offers existed. He started the sequence of tuts and spun the deck, shifting the image on one of the king cards sitting at the top of the pile. With a twist of his fingers he focused on what he wanted to create—lovely dark curls, broad shoulders, haughty expression, the hint of a dimple at his chin, a crown in red and gold, a paisley tie and embroidered waistcoat to match. Quentin held it up and looked at it, pleased. It was his best one. He flicked it over to Eliot. 

Eliot held it up, examining it. “Oh, Q. That’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Quentin shuffled the cards again with the sleight of hand tricks he’d learned. He pulled a card from a shimmering patch of air right in front of Eliot and tossed it up, letting it circle with the others. 

Eliot was pink-cheeked and smiling—an open, wide smile, eyes bright, unguarded. It wasn’t something Quentin saw often. Eliot brushed his fingers over Quentin’s forearm, and he leaned in closer to Quentin, so the length of his body was almost touching his friend’s. “You definitely deserve a drink.”

Quentin hummed, happy. When he woke up this morning, he’d been in a shitty mood, head pounding from too much booze, muscles sore from forcing himself to dance with Julia, his soul still wounded from his lack of magical discipline. Without knowing it, Eliot had pulled away all of that pain. Quentin watched as Eliot ambled over to the bar and started to put together a vodka-and-citrus based drink (Quentin’s favorite), shaking it with ice and pouring it into one of the fancy crystal glasses Eliot kept in a locked cabinet above the bar. It was blissfully cold and smelled sweet when Eliot put it in his hand. The card was in Eliot’s vest pocket. 

Quentin reminded himself that all of _this_ was better than his silly, one-sided crush. Real friendship. Eliot caring about him, taking the time to teach him a few different castings to build with the cards, smoothing out the techniques for his telekinesis, complimenting him on his precision with small-scale magic. They sat and drank and talked for an hour or more while Quentin practiced with the cards.

“I’m going to work for a little while,” Eliot said, ruffling Quentin’s hair like Margo had. It felt different when he did it. Like his skin was burning beneath Eliot’s touch. “Picnic outside after?”

“Mm, yeah,” Quentin said, looking up at Eliot. For a second, he thought something in Eliot’s face looked _hungry_ , the way he felt when he looked at Eliot. But it was likely just a trick of the afternoon light. 

Hours later, when Margo came home (with her hair not really looking that much different, in Quentin’s opinion), she took a long look at them, both of them laid out on a blanket behind the Cottage, two empty wine bottles and a half-eaten wheel of cheese and plate of crackers sitting between them. “Bet you got a lot of work done, Eliot,” she said, pointedly.

Quentin giggled because he was _drunk_. And Eliot had worked for like, maybe twenty minutes, max. Quentin frowned a little bit. “I’m sorry if I, um, distracted you.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Eliot said. He lifted a third bottle of wine with a wave of his hand, unscrewed the top and poured a glass for Margo. 

She groaned, but she took the wine floating in the air in front of her, and sat down next to them. 

It was, all in all, one of the best day’s of Quentin’s life.


	2. Sell Lies Like They're Only Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and El study together. Margo is pushy. Q eats a muffin. It's not what he thinks. Eliot is pining. Minor smut content. Mention of Eliot's dad. Drug use. Alcohol, obviously. They are in Eliot's room.

~Eliot~

Eliot hadn’t worked at all on his thesis proposal yesterday. Instead, he’d spent most of the day watching Quentin play with cards. And when he told Quentin he was going upstairs to ‘work,’ he’d jerked off in his room because he was about to lose his goddamn mind. He wasn’t even thinking about fucking Quentin (this time; that thought went through his head on a somewhat predictable cycle now); he came with a loud shout (thank fuck for silencing wards) while he was thinking about _kissing Quentin_. Because he was broken. Quentin had broken him. He was no longer kinky-daddy, first-year-on-my-dick Eliot. Somewhere in the first few weeks after meeting Quentin with his brown messenger bag and his ugly tie and the hair that he really shouldn’t have liked if he’d had a lick of sense, he’d turned into romantic-afternoon, wine-and-cheese Eliot. 

He guess that those two sets of descriptors didn’t necessarily need to be mutually exclusive, Eliot didn’t feel like himself anymore. Quentin had tugged and tugged at Eliot’s cool, crafted center, unwinding him bit by bit until Eliot felt like a loosened ball of yarn, tangled and useless and fraying at the edges. 

He stretched on his bed and rolled over to look at the card Quentin had made for him. Eliot had put it on his nightstand because he was a disgusting _sap_. The card was some of the dorkiest shit Eliot had ever seen, and he’d hung on every word Quentin said while he was twirling those stupid fucking cards and beamed at him like he’d hung the moon when he delivered the card to Eliot (with his far-from-terrible telekinetic magic). 

Eliot would have already seduced him and finished up with his customary four-fucks-and-maybe-one-date if Quentin weren’t so obviously straight. Well. He’d done the same routine with several ‘obviously straight’ boys last semester, and none of them considered themselves straight anymore, if the rumors that had reached him were correct. So, Quentin wasn’t technically a lost cause. He was just _Quentin_. And now he was one of Eliot’s _people_ , and that made it all impossibly difficult. 

And Eliot _wanted him_ so, so badly.

But the thing was… Quentin wasn’t disposable. He was rapidly becoming a non-negotiable feature of Eliot’s life. At first, he figured he’d find a way to fuck Quentin’s lovely mouth and send him on his way to the Nature Cottage or whatever-the-fuck random discipline he was. It probably wouldn’t have taken that much—maybe teach him some magic, give him a few drinks, a suggestive look, arm around his shoulder, a bit of talk about how pretty he is, a wine-soaked kiss. He’d probably be lenient about his heterosexuality if Eliot had played it just right. 

Instead, he’d had the stupid idea to befriend Quentin, to look into his big brown eyes and listen to him about his depressive episodes and his shitty mom and Julia’s all-but-disappearance since getting accepted early into the Knowledge cohort. And Q was a physical kid. He was one of them. Eliot had been lured in by the siren call of the pretty straight boy, and then he hadn’t been able to get rid of Quentin. He just kept _showing up_ , and he’d never once tried to push Eliot away. (And oh, how Eliot had been pushed away so many times by so many people.)

It was Quentin that kept him headed down the _platonic friendship_ path. It was pathetic and off-brand for Eliot, but here he was. Quentin had made it inevitable by just… being the person he was. Q was intelligent and sarcastic, and his magic was both beautifully solid and delicate like fine strands of strong thread woven together. He was sometimes all sharp edges and brattiness and anxiety, wearing out the sleeves of his endless collection of black hoodies, worrying the fabric between his fingers. Furniture, in general, seemed to disagree with Quentin about as much as clothing did. As far as Eliot could tell, Quentin was physically unable to sit unless he was folded in half or partially lying down. It was charming as fuck. 

Eliot really needed to get up. It was Sunday, and he owed Margo his time and undying allegiance. She’d let him off the hook after he basically stood her up so he could stare at Quentin all day. He groaned and buried his head in his pillow. He needed to shower and get himself un-hungover and do some _actual_ work on his thesis and—

He sighed. He lifted his head and looked over at the card again. 

_Is that how you see me, Q?_

The card showed him the sides of himself he hoped Quentin saw—elegant, refined, cultured, alluring. That’s not all of who Eliot was, not really. There was something else there in the illustration, though—not just those things. A hint of a smirk, curls wild over his forehead. Eliot couldn’t put his finger on it, but Q had captured something of the essential Eliot, the person beneath his artful veneer. Quentin had made him… beautiful. He traced his fingers over the lines of magically arranged ink. 

“It used to be only Bambi,” he murmured. “Now it’s you, too, huh?” Ever since he’d met Margo, he swore she’d be his only love. It suited him just fine to have a platonic soulmate who he occasionally shared boys with. But Q had made Eliot question his entire worldview and all the things he knew about himself. He had let someone else in. He hadn’t even realized it was happening. 

He rationalized that this was all normal. It was normal to have more than one friend. It was normal to want to fuck your friend if they were pretty, if they had a lovely cupid’s bow mouth and dark, deep-set eyes and long, silky, honey-brown hair falling over their broad shoulders and a slim, compact, flexible body and delightfully hairy forearms. It was fine to wish for that kind of closeness if your friend felt as warm as the summer sun when you pulled them in for a hug, their head fitting snugly in the crook of your neck. If they were smart and bitchy and rolled their eyes and every other word you said—and if their sweet pink mouths just wanted to be kissed. 

His cock twitched despite the vague pounding in his head. 

_Stop it_ , he thought. _Get up, you momentous loser and get showered and—_

He closed his eyes, and he thought of Quentin, lying out on the red flannel blanket, cracker crumbs all over his faded, ever-present black t-shirt. His lips were stained red with wine, and he kept twirling those cards above their heads, shifting the images into different styles each time he did the tuts to change them. He was ranting about magic, illusion spells in particular, which he seemed to have something of a knack for—though he kept denying it every time Eliot said a single encouraging word. Then he got stuck on talking about ‘X-Files,’ of all things, saying it was his ‘unwitting sexual awakening.” Q had looked at Eliot like he was an idiot when he tried to add to the ‘X-Files’ awakening rant that Gillian Anderson was gorgeous (this was an objective fact both in 1998 and now; he didn’t know why he merited that look from Q). But they were drunk by that point, and Quentin couldn’t stop laughing and throwing crackers and cards at Eliot, and he was so, so cute, and he’d twisted on the blanket so he was facing Eliot. They were so close that Eliot could have reached out and kissed him, tasted the wine on his lips.

He could feel himself stiffening against the pillowy soft bed. His cock pressed against the silk boxer briefs that he wore because he liked to be touchable—even though he hadn’t been touched by anyone but his own left hand since the day he met Quentin. He hadn’t even had a sexual _thought_ about anyone else _besides_ Quentin since that first week of classes. 

He wasn’t pining. 

He wasn’t. It wasn’t a thing he did.

And he wasn’t going to jerk off thinking about kissing Quentin _again_. Because that was fucking shameful, Eliot. Jesus Christ. 

But Quentin’s lips looked so _soft_ , and he could so easily imagine the sweet, surprised sounds that would slip from Quentin’s throat as Eliot kissed him, slipping his tongue inside, tasting the wine on his lips, the hint of Camembert as he explored Quentin’s mouth. He thought of the surprised gasps Q made when Eliot taught him a new casting or brought him a drink. He wanted to drink in those gasps while kissing Quentin, his body thrumming and taut beneath Eliot’s touch. Quentin would probably _love_ being kissed, and Eliot was _good_ at it, so good. He’d let Q know all the things he’d been feeling through that first kiss, his hands roaming over Quentin’s body, palming his cock, finding it was hard, hard for Eliot.

Fuck, speaking of hard. Eliot was… _wow._

So goddamn stupid. Jesus. But.

He slipped his hand down his body, moving the waistband of his underwear and loosely fisting his cock, just testing the waters to see if he really needed to get himself off or—

“Hmmmfff.” He groaned into his pillow, hips hitching forward into his hand as he clutched tighter. So, that’s how it was going to be. He might as well commit because his hindbrain was driving now, and it knew what it wanted. This was happening now, whether or not his frontal lobe fully approved of his obsession with Quentin’s mouth. He flipped over on his back and slipped his boxers down over his hips, did a quick tut that slicked his palm, and grabbed his cock with a groan. Just being close to a boy, sharing fucking wine and cheese, had _never_ been enough to get Eliot worked up quite like this, but God, was it ever working for him right now. 

He stroked himself, gripping tight and running his hand over his length, drawing his thumb up over his tip with a small shudder. He thought of Quentin’s mouth (God help him), the way his tongue flicked out over his lips, what it would look like to have Q’s lips around his cock, his dark eyes trained on Eliot, head bobbing up and down on his dick, which was— _oh yes_ —that was a delicious image. The sounds he’d make; he’d love sucking dick if he gave himself the chance. He always wanted something in his mouth; why shouldn’t it be Eliot’s cock? He grunted, biting down on his lip, thrusting up into his hand. 

And—and—Quentin lived here now, sleeping in the room right above him on the third floor. He was up there right now, stretched out in his bed with his hair fanned out across his pillow, curled up in his fucking Fillory and Further map-print sheets, probably wearing that Lord of the Rings shirt that he had stupidly asked Quentin about. ( _That’s the white tree of Gondor, Eliot,_ he’d said like Eliot was an idiot, and Margo had laughed so hard she spit out her drink). His smooth skin was probably hot to the touch because Quentin was a fucking space heater—and if Eliot got him alone up in his room and kissed him, there’s no way he _wouldn’t_ want Eliot. Eliot knew what he was doing, and he could make it good; he could make Quentin’s first time so special, worship his gorgeous little body and his stiff cock. He could get Quentin so worked up; he could open him up with his tongue, tasting the musky, soft ring of muscle. He would make the prettiest sounds if he just let Eliot have him, fuck him, take him. He’d be begging Eliot to fuck him, pleading with him, but Eliot would just keep opening him up with his mouth and his finger, going so slow, so slow. He panted, stroking faster, thinking of bringing Quentin up on to all fours—or no, putting him on his back so he could see his face—and pressing the head of his cock right against that tight ring of muscle and moving past it into his lube-slicked entrance into the tight, hot core of him and he’d say, _I’ve never done this before,_ and _You feel so good, Eliot_ , dragging out his name in that way he did sometimes, _El-i-ot_ , and he’d look so gorgeous with his skin flushed and Eliot fucking into him and—his hair damp with sweat right at his hairline, lips parted, his face awed and his cock hard and leaking and he’d say— _I want you so much, El, wanted you for so long—_. And Eliot would give him _everything_. 

Eliot stroked faster, harder, warmth pooling inside of him, sighing and groaning, fucking into his fist and thinking of Quentin coming on his dick, his eyes fluttering shut as he groaned and came in stripes over his belly—and. Eliot was groaning before he even realized he was close, heat spreading through his thighs, toes curling against his sheets. He let out a ragged moan, thinking of Quentin’s body clenching against him, tensing and releasing, his lips swollen from kissing, his body moving with Eliot’s thrusting, Quentin telling Eliot he’d never been fucked so well, breathy and reverent… Eliot’s hips snapped up, and pleasure spread through him like champagne bubbles, starting low in his hips and bursting through his body as he came, warmth spreading over his hand and belly, Quentin’s name on his lips. He lay there in the silence that followed, his thoughts hazy and spinning, wondering how he’d come to want something so much, something he couldn’t really have.

He sighed and did a series of cleaning tuts, which vanished the evidence of his Sunday morning Quentin-reverie (Where did all the vanished things _go_? He shuddered to think of all the things he’d gotten rid of that way ending up somewhere). Truly pitiful that Eliot should be so attached to _one boy_. It was temporary. That’s what it was. He’d get Quentin out of his system at the next Physical Kids party this weekend, and Quentin could get with Alice (wait, no—Alice was fucking Kady?) or whatever girl he wanted, and everyone could be happy. He wanted Quentin happy, blissfully unaware of the _feelings_ Eliot was having. Ugh. 

“This whole thing is so gauche,” he said to himself, sliding out of bed. “Inconvenient, Eliot. Get a grip.” He pulled a clean towel around his hips, discarding his boxers in his hamper. Even with the cleaning tuts, he needed a shower, if only because he needed to condition his hair today. This bitch did not want frizzy curls.

When he walked into the hallway that led to his room, he saw steam coming from the open door of the bathroom. Great, he was going to have to take a shower in a pre-steamed bathroom. Something about that was just… ugh. Gross. Life goals—never share a bathroom with anyone, ever again. He sighed and pushed the door open wider—and there was Quentin, shaving, slowly turning and looking right at him, guileless and endearingly surprised. There were bits of shaving cream dotted around his face, still-damp hair plastered to his forehead, his cheeks. And his body, which Eliot had never really gotten to investigate, well, it was—it was, unlike so many things, better in reality than in Eliot’s dreams. Lightly furred chest and belly, a tight, slim build and well-formed muscles, towel clinging to his firm ass. Eliot was staring. Quentin’s eyes were wide; he reminded Eliot of a puppy caught with a shoe he shouldn’t have. 

“Um, I. The bathroom upstairs, the water pressure. It’s better down here. But I’ll—uh—I can go upstairs to finish—if you, uh, want to, um—”

Eliot’s brain wasn’t functioning properly, and he just kept looking at Quentin until his cognitive functions caught up an awkward few seconds later. “Don’t be silly. Finish up and I’ll come back—”

“You can stay—I’m just about done.” Quentin just starts shaving again like this is all _totally normal_ , like they weren’t standing close to each other only wearing towels, like it’s wasn’t basically the start of a porn, like Eliot hadn’t been jerking off to the thought of railing Quentin five minutes ago. At least that meant that Eliot had already come so hard that he wouldn’t get a goddamn boner staring at Quentin making faces in the mirror as he pulled his razor across the strong line of his jaw. God, but he’d look good in Eliot’s bed, framed by a pile of pillows, whimpering and arching up as Eliot took him into his mouth. He would taste so good right now, all warm, clean skin. A snuggly, tired boy that Eliot could just put in his bed and kiss and lick and tease every inch of him—

Eliot was ridiculous. “Yeah. I’ll. Okay.” 

“You know, I—like I have that, um, nature class tomorrow, the required one with whatsherface. Do you have time to look at the growing spells with me? Definitely not my strong suit. I can ask Todd if you’re busy.” Quentin cut his eyes over at Eliot and started splashing his face with water, shifting on one foot so that his towel sat just a little lower on his waist, showing the bitable divot of one hip. 

“Todd doesn’t know shit about shit.” 

Quentin smiled and laughed a little, patting his face dry. “Yeah. So?”

If Eliot were a better man, one who actually wanted to _help_ Quentin instead of _stare at him_ , he would have told Q to go locate Josh at the Nature Cottage. Josh was an actual naturalist, and he was always helpful when he wasn’t accidentally getting people high, and he’d like Quentin because Quentin was Josh’s type of nerd, and they could talk about plants and ‘Futurama’ all day. But Eliot was still acting on his must-bed-Quentin instincts like a damn caveman. _Stop it. Eliot. Don’t. No._ “My pleasure, Quentin.” 

He gave Q a little smile as he exited the bathroom. He brushed past Eliot, Quentin’s arm touching his for just a moment. Eliot shivered. This was—Quentin living here was—it was—his brain was short circuiting. He needed to get past this crazy, stupid shit, and fast. He wasn’t the pining-after-his-best-friend type. He was the Brakebills Party King, appointed alongside his Bambi. And now he was going to have Quentin in his room not just _some of the time_ but now, probably nearly _all of the time_. Quentin didn’t really follow boundaries when it came to Margo and Eliot. As insecure as he was, he somehow had just assumed that Margo and Eliot always wanted to see him (true for Eliot, mostly true for Margo), and he availed himself of their rooms whenever he was around the Physical Kids Cottage, where he now _lived_ , Jesus Christ. Eliot could keep a lot of his feelings crap at bay when Q went home to Penny at the end of the day, and he’d found it endearing how much Quentin had grumbled about not being able to stay the night at the Cottage. And now. Fuck. He’d jerked off to the image of Q taking his dick, and then he went out into the hallway, and there was Q. This was… not okay. 

“See you at like, two?” Quentin was still in the hallway, watching Eliot as he leaned over the sink, taking deep breaths. “Are you okay, El?” 

Eliot’s heart thumped, and he looked at lovely Q. “Fine. Just… hungover. Again. Too much wine.” There was a look he was wearing that Eliot had seen a few times before. If Quentin weren’t straight (he was straight, right?), he’d say it was akin to longing, but that was probably just his sex hormones or whatever telling him to read Quentin’s face that way. He knew his impulse to throw Quentin over his shoulder and fuck him into his Fillory-bedazzled mattress was _natural_ and _normal_ , but his brain was making shit up when it came to Quentin wanting him. He just… needed to remind himself of that when Q was standing a few feet away from him in the hall, his thin white towel not leaving much to the imagination, his shoulders still spotted with drops of water from the shower, dark pink nipples pebbled in the cool air of the hallway. _Fuck._

“If you need me to get the rest of that potion from Alice, I’m happy to brave, uh, going into Kady’s room. I think that’s where they are.” He grinned. “So, that means Alice is definitely, like, my girlfriend, or whatever—she just like, gets her hickeys from Kady—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Eliot said, laughing. “You’re such a brat.” When Eliot looked at him again, Quentin’s eyes had gone a little hazy, a little dark. Eliot bit at the inside of his cheek. _Stop. Big dumb lie. Stop it._

If he looked a little harder into himself, he would certainly say he didn’t think he deserved a boy like Quentin. He was so smart and unfailingly kind even to people who were total dicks to him (prime example: Penny), and he was gorgeous in a way that crept into the very center of Eliot and refused to let go. He was a smart ass know-it-all and not at all self-conscious about being a goddamn dork. That ‘Ayo, Technology’ dance he’d done with Julia at the party—well, Eliot had secretly recorded it on his (also illegal) phone and had watched it at least four times since Friday night, which was maybe a little creepy, but he couldn’t be blamed. There was so much hip-thrusting, and Q had been so game for it and so fucking _cute_ and smiley, and Eliot wanted to bundle him up and put him in his pocket and carry him around forever—the perfect accessory. 

And he was—he was like the vision of the boy Eliot would have dreamed up when he was twelve and realized he wasn’t going marry Kelly Burke from next door (he was going to marry her nerdy older brother, Caleb, and Kelly would run point on catering and flowers). But Eliot wasn’t in the habit of taking hard looks into himself. All that _difficult stuff_ floated right at the edges of his consciousness, and it was just barely starting to intrude on his rational thoughts. He could push away all the soul-searching pretty easily most of the time, but now he was… falling for Quentin (was he _falling for_ Quentin? Fuck, fuck, fuck), and here he was in the bathroom, examining his _feelings_ and going gooey over this very sexy, very vulnerable boy with all his softness and hidden sharp edges. 

“Am not,” Quentin said. “You were the one lobbing your heteronormativity at my face.” 

“Take that back,” Eliot said. “I would never.” 

“You did.” Quentin turned and started walking up the stairs to his room, and Christ, the view. It was a really, really good view. Of Quentin’s ass, just to be clear. “Later, El-i-ot.” 

“Fuck me,” Eliot mumbled to the mirror. He closed the door. 

***

“So, I’m planning to go get a pedicure today.” Margo sat down next to him on the couch with two kale-and-whatever smoothies. She handed one to him. It was going to taste gross (whatever Margo did in the blender always tasted gross), but she always shared with him and made sure there was fruit and vegetables and protein, and it was their Sunday tradition. Eliot also needed a pedicure. But. 

Eliot looked at her. “I have a—” Eliot paused. What was he going to say?

“You have a giant crush on Quentin?”

“What?” Eliot’s mouth was dry. He had some of the smoothie and put it down. It was vile. “I’m not—no. I don’t. That’s insane.”

“Let’s review the evidence. Exhibit one: you meet Quentin and can’t stop talking about how cute he is the entire time he’s taking the entrance exam.” 

“He’s cute,” Eliot said. He stroked the top of Margo’s foot; her skin was satin-soft, and her hair was so fucking beautiful. She looked like a sleek, sensual, secretly cuddly deer who would eat your face off in a blind rage. His _Bambi_. She was wonderful.

“Not that cute,” Margo said, patting him on the back of his hand. 

“He is that cute,” Eliot said absently. 

“That’s exhibit two, you silly twat.” 

“Fine.” Eliot looked behind him to make sure Quentin wasn’t creeping on the stairs. He lifted his hands and made a diamond shape, both pinkies extended, casting a silencing bubble over the sofa. The air shifted, honeycombed magic falling over them, everything still and eerily quiet now that the ambient sounds of the Cottage were blocked out entirely. “Yes. He’s attractive. I’m attracted to him. That doesn’t mean I need to do anything about it.” 

“Exhibit three,” Margo drawled. “You haven’t fucked anyone since the first week of school.” 

“Daddy’s having a dry spell, Bambi. That has nothing to do with Quentin.” 

“If I dosed you with truth serum right now, would you still tell me that your dry spell has _nothing_ to do with the boy who follows you everywhere like a besotted puppy? The boy that you have described to me as—” She got out her phone. 

“Oh Bambi, no—”

“I present exhibit four. Since August 29th, Brakebills time. January 29th everywhere else.” She cleared her throat and opened a note taking app on her phone. “‘Cute. Gorgeous. Adorable. Whiny, sexy brat. Tempting. Alluring. Sensually nerdy.’ I don’t even know what that last one means.”

Eliot opened his mouth, but Margo held up a finger, apparently scrolling down. She continued. “Captivating. Seductive.’ I don’t know where you’re getting ‘seductive’ from Quentin fucking Coldwater, but you said it—looks like last week. ‘Oddly fascinating. Beguiling. Oh—and two days ago, you called him ‘Rapunzel’ to his _face_. I got that on video—”

Eliot groaned. “Fine. I have a minor… attraction. Thing. For Quentin. It’s not going anywhere.”

“The fuck it’s not,” Margo said, sipping at her smoothie and putting it down in disgust. “You’re skipping out on actual plans with me, and you’re chasing Quentin’s dick all day, every day. You need to fuck him or marry him or whatever so that you’re not just a dopey oxytocin parade every time Q smiles at you.”

“Bambi. Even if I did like him that much—which I don’t—” (He did.) “—he’s straight. So.” 

Margo rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen the way he looks at you.” 

“We’re friends.”

“He looks at you like he wants to sit on your dick for the next fifty years. It’s absurd. And thoroughly nauseating. He’s completely gone on you. Since day one. You’re an absolute idiot for not seeing it. And I’m done tiptoeing around you two assholes.” 

“You haven’t said anything to Quentin?” 

Margo groaned. “No. I haven’t. We’re nerd friends who talk about nerd TV and nerd books. Sure, I’ve goaded him about his crush on Quinn but she’s apparently having her own Sapphic awakening.”

“He told me he didn’t like Alice that way.”

“No. He doesn’t mind her tits. But when you and Alice are in the room, Q is looking at _you_. Not her.”

“He’s straight. He’s only mentioned the girlfriend from college—”

“His one relationship. Does that mean someone is straight? Or is a guy only allowed to be queer if they suck dick exclusively?”

“But he’s not—”

She hit him with her phone. “Have you _asked_?” 

“No. I. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? So, that’s a no.” 

“Okay, no. I haven’t put his sexuality through a verification process.”

“Maybe you should, you moony-eyed dipshit. He’s probably jerking it right now, sobbing while he comes because he thinks he’s not good enough for you.”

“ _Bambi_.” 

She gestured to the faint glimmer surrounding them. “Cone of silence. I say what I want, you lovesick dick.”

His heart was pounding wildly now. She didn’t just say— “I’m not—”

She sat up and grabbed Eliot’s chin, giving him what passed for a sweet smile. “Talk to him or I will fucking end you. Got it?” 

“But I can’t—I don’t want to—” He cringed. “I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

Margo groaned and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose like she had a migraine. Eliot didn’t blame her. “Baby, do you think for a second that Coldwater is the sort of person to ditch someone he cares about? For any reason? Ever?”

“I don’t know. No.”

“Plus I’m 100% confident he wants to jump on the Eliot Waugh carousel and get dicked down on the reg.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“Of course I’m fucking mad. You blew me off yesterday. You’re blowing me off today to gaze into your lover’s eyes and probably have another fucking picnic while you fantasize about giving him a very tender blow job. I’m mad, and I love you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. And just because I don’t want a fucking relationship now or maybe ever doesn’t mean I don’t want _you_ to get what you want. And it’s very clear you want fuck that boy, right there—” Margo looked over Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot’s heart stopped for a second. He turned to see Quentin on the stairs, waving shyly at him. He had on his Fillory and Further Fun Run t-shirt that made some Fillorian woodland thing look like the art for the National Park Service. It was dorky. Eliot loved it. 

“I’m sorry, Bambi. I love you more than anything.” 

“It’s okay to love other things,” she said. The alarm on her phone buzzed. 

“What’s that? Your pedicure appointment?” Eliot pinched at the air and undid the wards. The magic wavered and dissipated, falling to the floor and dissolving outward in an incandescent wave. 

“No, I set a timer. I’m done talking about feelings shit. Now, you have an assignment. Mama’s going to go get a foot massage.” She squeezed his hand and blew him a kiss, gathering up the tiny purse she called her Hermione Granger bag, since it was enchanted to fit whatever she wanted to carry. He’d always argued it should be called the Mary Poppins bag, but she said Mary Poppins was basically a maid and Hermione was a bad bitch. It wasn’t a point that he tried to argue. Very few points were worth arguing with Margo.

“Bye, honey,” she said. “Be good.”

“I’ll try,” he said, and he blew her a kiss.

“Second day in a row,” Quentin said. Eliot jumped just a little as Quentin rounded the corner. He’d forgotten that Q was lurking. “Isn’t she pissed that you’re just, um, lazing around here with me?”

“I definitely don’t laze anywhere. I lounge decoratively.”

“You’re very decorative,” Quentin said, smiling, kissable dimples appearing at the corners of his smile. He was leaning against the sofa in one of his awkward, boneless stances. 

Eliot was going to ignore that because surely he didn’t mean anything by it. “You ready for your riveting afternoon of naturalist knowledge?” 

“Uh yeah. I was going to say we should go outside again with the wine. Um. But. It’s supposed to rain. So we could like, cast the Ito-Lowenberg sequence for blocking inclement weather. I’m just not great at it, or we can study in your room.”

“We can study in my room. I’ll bring up a bottle of Riesling. Good for learning, I’ve heard.”

“Definitely. Oh and, um, the gouda. And the crackers. If you allow food in your room. I know my mom never let me—”

“What are cleaning spells for, Q, if not for eating cheese on my floor?”

Quentin giggled in that silly, little kid way he had when he was ridiculously pleased with something—or when he was so drunk he couldn’t stand up. Either way, it was maybe the cutest laugh Eliot ever encountered, and Eliot absolutely hated himself for thinking that, because God, Margo was right, it was so gross. But Eliot smiled and got up and did exactly what Quentin wanted because apparently he was now a pod person created to serve Quentin drinks and cheese. 

After collecting all the picnic supplies, including the velvet-lined picnic basket he’d used the day before, he strolled up the stairs to a the sight of the prettiest boy at Brakebills waiting for him outside of his room. His pulse was racing like he’d made an effort at running to class (not something he did) by the time he got Quentin into his room. He was supposed to talk to Quentin. But what did he say? Margo didn’t tell him. And he wouldn’t be able to send a text to her to ask her what to say because there was no fucking signal anywhere on this godforsaken fucking campus. So, he cleared his throat, opened his mouth and—

“Let’s have some wine.” He pushed his back up against his bed and lifted the bottle with a simple hand movement, uncorking it with another. He poured the wine into two glasses in the air. Quentin, being _Quentin_ was lying on Eliot’s (reasonably clean) floor with his legs propped up against the overstuffed chair in the corner of Eliot’s room. His hair was an ungraceful mess, a jagged, dark shape on the white rug. Eliot felt compelled to reach out and just _touch_ , take whatever Quentin was willing to give. Quentin leaned his head back and smiled up at him as he floated the glass of wine down next to Quentin’s hand.

“You should get me a straw so I don’t have to get up,” Quentin said, giggling again. He lifted himself and took a fairly successful sip of wine. A bit of Riesling dribbled down over his chin, and he gave Eliot one of his dimpled grins. Eliot knew that human hearts didn’t actually skip beats outside of major medical emergencies, but he understood the sentiment. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of his major organs just shut down just from looking at Quentin. 

“Do you want to do the growth casting? I have my notes from last year. Actually, that’s a lie. I have Margo’s notes.”

Quentin laughed again and sipped at his wine. “Of course you have Margo’s notes. Imagine the skills you’d have if you, you know, went to class.” Quentin drew the pack of cards out of his pocket he’d been playing with yesterday, and _dear God_ , he can’t be doing this again. Eliot had to jerk himself off over it yesterday. But Quentin was already lifting the cards again and fanning them out in the air, his mouth open and pink and awed, his magic filling the air and sinking into Eliot’s skin. 

“You can’t improve on perfection, Q. I thought you knew that.”

“Uh—my mistake.” Quentin twirled the cards out in a spiral before bringing them back to his hands and taking another drink of wine. He brushed some crumbs from his shirt, muttering about the muffin he’d had for breakfast.

“Seriously—we should—”

“What? Are you trying to encourage me to, like, actually work? You’re losing your touch, El.” 

“You wanted to—”

“I do want to, uh, ostensibly. Like, I’ll look at the spells. You’ll help me with them. I’m not the optimal level of tipsy yet. And I haven’t had nearly enough cheese.” He twirled the pack of cards on the tips of his fingers; he then withdrew his fingers and let the cards hang in midair before letting them fall. He caught them just before they hit the ground and guided them back into his card case with a flick of his hand.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were just trying to get me in my room alone.” Did this count as talking to Quentin? He was guessing no. He finished off his own glass of wine and poured another, showy with his telekinesis, as Q watched him, his eyes following Eliot’s fingers rather than the bottle of wine. 

“Who says I’m not?” Quentin looked away and reshuffled his cards.

“Who was your first crush?” Eliot asked. He’d need more wine for this. 

“Rachel Eddy. Fourth grade. She was into Narnia. I was into Fillory. It was never meant to be.” The cards twirled, following Quentin’s steady fingers. His magic really was so _fine-tuned_ , for lack of a better way to describe it. If Eliot had to guess, Q would end up doing something with his magic that required attention to detail—refined work, not large scale and unwieldy like Eliot’s. 

“First kiss?”

He tilted his head and looked back at Eliot. “Really? I mean, this is not at all, like, actually interesting. And not at all related to Nature. I kissed Millie Stewart at junior prom. She was Julia’s friend, and I think Julia probably bribed her to go with me. I was—um, no surprise—a total fuckup and didn’t call her, and she told everyone I was a terrible kisser. Nightmare fuel.” 

Eliot already knew about the college girlfriend. And he didn’t need to hear about her again. It was a solid reality that Quentin dated women. Or dated one woman. Whatever, he was confused. Was he supposed to just _ask_? Margo hadn’t given him clear enough instructions, so he was abandoning this line of inquiry altogether. He grabbed for his books of notes from last year, flipping through the Nature section to find the simple growing spells they’d learned at the beginning of the year. He found the one Quentin had been asking about and read through it. When he looked back over at Quentin, the cards had stopped twirling, and Quentin was watching him. 

“What?” Eliot asked. 

“That was out of nowhere. Like, you know. Completely.”

“Oh. _Oh_. I was talking about first crushes with Margo this morning.”

“Who’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your first crush?” 

_You_ , Eliot thought. But no. “Caleb Burke. He lived next door. Or, as next door as you can be in—” He shifted on the floor, topped off his wine. Quentin was his people. He wasn’t going to judge Eliot, was he? “In Indiana. That’s where I’m from. Did I tell you that before?”

“No, you never told me,” Quentin said, voice low. 

Q might really be the death of him. He kept twirling the cards, very clearly listening to every word Eliot said, pausing to drink more or reshuffle (because God forbid he be still for half a second). But he nodded and hummed as Eliot talked about the farm, haltingly alluding to his dick of a father. It seemed important. It seemed _easier_ than asking anything of Quentin when he knew he might not be able to live with the answers. 

“You’re amazing,” Quentin said. 

Eliot looked at him quizzically, coming out of the fog of his own memories, tipsy, slightly confused. “What?”

“You’re just—you did this.” Quentin gestured around them, creating a ruffle in the cards above his head. “You made it here. You got out. And you’re talented and brilliant, and you’re a fucking magician. It’s just—you.”

Eliot swallowed hard. “No, no. That’s enough of that. I’m not—”

“You are, though. Whatever you’re going to say you’re not, seriously, like. You are.” Quentin was drunk again. Eliot really might not be the best influence on Q, he thought with a shudder. They were supposed to be talking about plants, weren’t they? Where were Eliot’s plant notes? 

“Okay, seems like you’ve had enough—” He reached over and took Quentin’s wine glass, but Quentin caught his hand. A sudden, fierce heat surged through him, focused on the exact place Quentin’s fingertips were touching his. He looked down into Quentin’s eyes, which were dark and far away and staring through Eliot all at once. 

_Maybe Margo was onto something._

“Hey,” Quentin said. “You so are.” 

“I’m so what?” Quentin didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. 

“You’re spectacular.”

Eliot studied him, incredulous. Quentin’s hand dropped away, and Eliot could still feel his touch. If this were literally any other first year on the entire campus—no, in the state of New York—Eliot would be fucking him _right now_. Hours ago, he’d had a filthy fantasy, comparatively filthy considering he kept jerking it to Quentin’s mouth, and now the same boy was in front of him, and he _couldn’t_ do a goddamn thing. But if he bent down to kiss him just now, he could—he could write it off as just a friendly kiss. That’s a thing people did. 

_Come on, Eliot. That is not a thing people do. Jesus._

But the way Quentin was looking at him, the way he’d just taken Eliot’s hand and held it like he was precious to Quentin, so sweet and—maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try. He leaned down closer to Quentin, scooting his body across the floor and nearly knocking over the wine glass. _Come on, Eliot. Be smooth. You can do this._ Quentin’s lovely lips were parted, and his gaze locked on Eliot and—Quentin’s pupils were really fucking huge. Eliot stopped, startling a bit.

“Quentin, did you eat anything before you came up here? You didn’t take anything from one of the cabinets, did you?”

“Um—I—hm. I. You. Uh. What?” Oh good God, he was disintegrating. Even worse than usual. 

“Q, did you have any of the muffins on the counter under Todd’s cereal collection?”

“Oh yeah. Blueberry. Todd said I could have one.”

_Fucking Todd._

“Those are muffins that Josh Hoberman made.”

“Who’s… ?” Quentin bit at his lip, brows quirked together. 

“He’s a naturalist. He does some interesting things with… magic drugs. Those muffins are like—magic ecstasy mixed with a healthy dose of mescaline. And Todd didn’t tell you?” 

“Uh, no. They’re um. Hey, does the ceiling look weird to you? It looks like one of your ties. The yellow one with, like, the blue paisley. It looks like—so good on you.” A smile split Quentin’s face, his eyes face so crinkled Eliot could barely see his eyes. It was just so handsome and precious, and if Eliot could eat him alive like a snake, he would. It was a weird thought, but there it was. And he was simultaneously livid with Todd, who was fucking careless, and maybe a little angry at himself for not saying, ‘Hey Q, don’t eat the kitchen muffins unless you split one with me; they’re a little strong.’

“Oh my God, Eliot.” Quentin was now cry-laughing, and all of Eliot’s promises to Margo were absolutely moot because Quentin was _tripping balls_ and would be for the next eight hours or so. Jesus. “El, oh my God.”

“What? What is it? Are you okay?” He brushed a bit of Quentin’s hair away from his face, and he leaned into Eliot’s touch like a cat. It was distracting.

“We can do _magic_.” 

Eliot groaned and then leaned back against his bed and laughed a little. “Yes, Q. We can do magic.”

“And you’re so, so good at it. I love watching you do the—the—telekinesis stuff. Show me something _amazing_.” 

“Quentin, honey. Listen to me.” 

Quentin opened his eyes and looked at Eliot with heartbreaking openness. “What, El? What do you want?” Quentin rolled toward him, putting his body in yet another weird position, just inches from Eliot’s. He was so warm and so pretty. He slowly brought a palm to Eliot’s knee and then started tracing circles over Eliot’s leg and up his thigh—and Eliot was _not_ going to be able to function through this. What time was Margo coming back? Could he get Julia? Anyone. Quentin was _feeling him up_. “Your pants are so soft. I would think that like, everything you wear is uncomfortable, but they’re soft and like—nice to touch.”

“Q.”

“Hm?”

“You’re tripping pretty hard right now. Have you ever taken anything like this before?”

Quentin knitted his brows like he couldn’t quite comprehend his question. “I’ve never been in magic school before so—” He didn’t finish his thought. He probably couldn’t. 

“I mean like mushrooms. Or ecstasy. Or both together, which is kind of what this is.”

“Not both together, but like. Um. Yes. Just. A year or so ago? Was the last time. And uh—yeah.” He wiped his hand over his face and opened his mouth, closed it again. “I’m... hm.”

“Really high?” 

“Am I—is this okay—if I’m here?” He looked stricken. “Oh God, I’m so sorry—I’m sorry—” Quentin started breathing harder.

“Shh, shh. It’s just your first Hoberman incident. We’ve all been there. Trust me. I’m going to—what am I going to do? I’m going to get some of _Todd’s_ gatorade. And Todd’s fucking Cheetos. And Todd’s water bottle, and anything else of Todd’s I can find. And we’re going to get some of Bambi’s DVDs and I’ll set up my laptop, and we’ll watch them while you come down. Okay?”

His hand was still on Eliot’s leg, but it was just resting there now. That was okay, he guessed. Better than before. “Are your clothes, like, really uncomfortable?”

Eliot paused, looking down at his vest and the silk-blend trousers that were quite soft to the touch, thank you very much. “Not to me,” Eliot said. “Helps me feel put together.”

“Like a puzzle,” Quentin said. There was almost no brown in his eyes. All black. 

“Like a puzzle,” Eliot said, soothing. “Before you get any worse off, I’m going to go get some drinks and some snacks, okay? You need to stay hydrated, and you need something besides wine and crackers to digest. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Quentin said, nodding and closing his eyes, looking a little pale now. 

Eliot ran down the stairs and grabbed all of Todd’s blue Gatorade, a bag of Cheetos, two apples, and a bag of carrots (all of which had Todd’s name on them—served him right). On his way back up, he grabbed Margo’s DVD case. There had to be something soothing in there. When he got back to his room, Quentin had shucked off his Fillory shirt (it was lying on Eliot’s floor) and was wrapped up in Eliot’s bed, all his lovely skin pressed against Eliot’s white sheets. He shivered. That was… that was a sight. 

“El, you’re back.” Quentin rolled over and propped up on one elbow, wearing that goofy grin again, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, his hair falling over his face. 

“I am indeed,” he said tightly. Eliot thrust a bottle of Gatorade at Quentin, who opened it and drank greedily, dripping Gatorade over his bare chest. Jesus Christ. Eliot went to work setting up his laptop. “Q, can you look through these movies and see if anything appeals.” He pushed the case over to Quentin, trying to avoid touching him or looking at him too much. He set his ancient laptop on his desk and opened the DVD slot, praying that it might still work. It slid open. “Looks like we’re in business.”

“Oh yeah? Here’s—this is good—there’s like three whole seasons. You’ll uh. You’ll _love_ it. No one who sees it _doesn’t love it_ ,” he said ardently. “But the movie. The movie _didn’t happen_. And I can’t believe you have a laptop—we’re not _supposed to_ —” 

“Okay, this is a cartoon. That’s fine.” Eliot cleared his throat. He could work on reading he actually needed to do for his thesis. The reading he’d intended to do yesterday. He thought Q’s nature class was probably going to be a bust no matter what. 

He slipped the DVD in and pressed play. He looked over at Quentin, who was wide-eyed and happy and smiling again. Eliot went over to his bookshelf, sorting through his books and pulling out the ones he needed. He went to settle in the chair next to his bookshelf, but Quentin was watching him with big, sad eyes. “Come get in bed and watch it. Um. It’s good. Please? I need. I need to.” Quentin’s eyes darted around and Jesus, he was really out of it. “I don’t want to be far away.”

“Oh. Okay,” Eliot said brightly. He kicked off his house slippers and brought his books over to the bed, crawling on and trying to stay as far from Quentin as possible. It was a California king, so there was room. But as soon as he settled in bed, Quentin was wriggling his body over to Eliot and pushing himself up against him, bare-skinned and hot and twitchy. Eliot was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get anything done. 

Two hours later, he felt someone at the wards outside his room. There was a shimmer in the magic—Bambi knew how to get in—and then a knock. Margo, of course, expected Eliot to have completed his mission and be fucking Quentin, he guessed. Instead, Quentin was still tripping hard, and his head was in Eliot’s lap—which was, yes, not the most comfortable situation. But honestly, the show was good. And it wasn’t all bad to have a lap full of half-naked warm boy. That was sort of his goal, anyway. It just… didn’t work out quite how he’d intended. 

“I’m coming in,” she yelled. “It’s okay if you’re not decent. I’ve seen it all.” 

“Come in, beloved.”

“Margo,” Quentin shouted. And he really shouted, like he was absolutely overjoyed. His lips were stained blue with Gatorade, and he was cradling a bag of Cheetos in his arms. 

“Oh, wow. Okay. What the fuck is going on here? Are you—” She took in the scene, eyes ending up on Eliot, who shrugged. “Are you watching ‘The Last Airbender’ with Coldwater?”

“Eliot really likes it, Margo,” Quentin said, a little bit surer with his words than he’d been a few hours ago. 

“Okay. What happened? This is not what I expected. Are those Todd’s Cheetos?” She paused for a second, hands on her hips. “Let me hazard a guess. Q, being Q, ate something random from the kitchen. And he’s super fucking high.”

“Bingo,” Eliot said.

“Quentin, baby,” she said. He was smiling again, looking at Margo with his wide, goofy grin. “Don’t eat any baked goods in the kitchen unless you run it by me and Eliot. Both of us. Okay?”

“Okay. I’m okay. Eliot won’t pet my hair like I asked him, though.”

Margo stifled a laugh. “Oh he won’t? I think he wants to. You should ask him again, Q.” 

“Eliot,” he said, rolling over so that even more of his body was in Eliot’s lap. He was ridiculous. “Please.” 

“I will. If Margo comes and sits next to me.” 

“Suits the hell out of me,” she said. “I didn’t know I was going to come home to this level of entertainment. Let me go get my loungewear.” 

Eliot, who couldn’t stand it anymore, slipped his hand in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin moaned, a shameless sound that he _never_ would have made sober. Eliot bit down on his lip, trying to focus on the show, which was good even if it was more of Quentin and Margo’s nerd shit. He really, really, really did not want his dick to get hard. And this was going to be a _challenge_. 

Margo was back a few minutes later, wearing her Brakebills t-shirt and yoga pants that cost more than a night out in the city. She slid into bed next to Eliot, her back against the wall. She put her legs over Quentin’s, and he giggled. “We in the Earth Kingdom yet, Q?”

“Not yet. Almost. Let me guess. Toph is um. Your favorite.”

“Toph gets shit done, baby boy. You’re damn right she’s my favorite.” 

“She’s like you,” Quentin said lovingly, patting Margo’s hand. 

“Oh, Q. No one has _ever_ paid me such a big compliment. I’m yours forever, baby.” She patted him on the ass because she was a beautiful demon from hell. “Let me guess,” she said to Eliot, “You guys didn’t do anything we talked about this morning.” 

Eliot gave her a pleading look. “Please,” he whispered. As in ‘Please drop this for right now.’ 

Her eyes went wide and she gestured to Q. “He likes you,” she mouthed. Quentin’s eyes were glued to the laptop, and he was still cuddling Todd’s bag of Cheetos. 

“I don’t know,” Eliot said aloud. “Not the right afternoon for it.” 

“Apparently,” Margo said. “Jesus Christ. The both of you.”

He ran his fingers through Quentin’s hair over and over, taking note of all the little sighs and the press of Quentin’s body, hot against his legs. When they helped him to his room near midnight, the drugs had mostly worn off. But Quentin was still loopy and falling all over himself, and Eliot had to help him out of his jeans while Margo dramatically rolled her eyes and groaned, saying things like, ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Eliot,’ and ‘You two are such miserable idiots,’ which made Quentin keep laughing and wasn’t helpful at _all_. 

Just as Eliot turned off the light, Quentin’s hand caught his in the darkness. “Stay,” Quentin said. Eliot’s heart was pounding wildly, so wildly it might escape his chest and make him explode into a thousand pieces. And Eliot wasn’t, he wasn’t going to say yes. He needed to sleep and he needed to be _away_ from this temptation. “I just don’t want to be alone,” Quentin said, a little breathy, a little lost. 

And what was Eliot going to do? He couldn’t say no to that. 

He slid in bed next to Quentin, wearing his lounge pants and kimono and not moving to take _any_ of it off, because—he definitely couldn’t. Quentin rambled on for a while about the show, the animation style, the story arc and the characters and the premise, and Eliot just listened to him until they both dozed off. When he dreamed, he dreamed about Quentin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if there's anything you want to see in this fic! i meant to keep the chapters short, but apparently i'm incapable. hope you enjoyed! follow me on tumblr: @hoko-onchi-writes


	3. Maybe We Can Find a Decent Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has crippling self doubt and a boner. Margo and Julia are meddlesome. Eliot and Quentin accidentally stumble into communicating with each other. But don’t worry; their communication skills fall apart once clothes come off. 
> 
> Light angst in the form of Quentin’s anxiety. Really doesn’t quite qualify as true angst. Q does almost have a panic attack, but Eliot knows how to deal with these things (with his dick).
> 
> What I’d intended to be like a 10k one shot has evolved.

~Quentin~

Quentin came to consciousness slowly, blinking his eyes blearily, sleep still at the corners, hair in his mouth, crick in his neck. He wasn’t wearing his Fillory Fun Run shirt anymore, which was weird, and his mouth tasted like Cheetos, and his head was fuzzy, his thoughts disorganized. And the bed was—what was—what happened that he—he flung his arm out to stretch his neck and hit something solid and warm and— _oh shit_. He closed his eyes, blood rushing in his ears. _Shit shit shit_.

“Ow.” That was Eliot’s voice. “I didn’t know you were violent in the mornings.” 

Eliot was in his bed. _Eliot_ was in his bed. Eliot. It was Eliot. 

“Uh,” Quentin said. He rolled over and was face to face with Eliot, who couldn’t possibly be comfortable squished against the wall, his knees tucked up so he didn’t have to let them dangle off the bed. Eliot was—God, he was so gorgeous, even first thing in the morning—no, _especially_ in the morning, with his curls somehow both wild and elegant, his eyes looking more green than brown in the low light, his burgundy and peach floral kimono artfully open and showing his soft, dark chest hair. It was… an image Quentin wasn’t going to soon forget. He could just tuck it away and—

_What the fuck is Eliot doing in my bed?_

“Do you remember last night?” Eliot shifted, and he raised a hand to push a lock of hair away from Quentin’s face. A chill ran through him, his veins thrumming, cheeks growing red. Did he remember last night? Fuck. Did he try to seduce Eliot, and it had all gone horribly wrong? Because while Eliot was lying in bed next to Quentin, he was (mostly) clothed, and Quentin fucking hoped he’d remember having sex with Eliot. They hadn’t. Had they? No. There was—something about a muffin. The pieces started falling into place in his mind, clicking together one after another. 

Quentin groaned. “Shit. I—oh fuck—I had one of Todd’s muffins, didn’t I? And they were full of drugs.”

Eliot grinned, looking thoroughly amused and maybe a little bit charmed—but yeah, no. That was just the look he was wearing because Quentin was an idiot and had accidentally gotten very fucking high and laid all over Eliot and—oh, he remembered demanding that Eliot pet his hair. He’d been so turned on that he had been moaning and sighing while Eliot touched him, one hand on his shoulder, the other lifting his hair and releasing it, letting it fall. Some of last night was, like, not super clear. But _that_ was. God. 

“You were adorable,” Eliot said. Adorable? Eliot called him ‘adorable.’ That was… Quentin didn’t know. It was doing something to him he couldn’t fully explain, and it wasn’t making his dick any _less_ hard.

“I was… oh fuck. I was so fucked up. That’s just… Jesus. So awful—”

“You seemed to have a pretty good time. You insisted we watch into the second season of ‘Avatar’ so I could ‘meet Toph.’ You were not to be swayed.” 

Quentin groaned. He vaguely remembered trying to argue with Eliot that he wasn’t ready for bed sometime around midnight, falling asleep on and off in his fucking lap. “God, El—you must think I’m—that’s so dumb and lame, and I’m so, so sorry—you must have had better things to do—”

“Q, don’t.”

“Don’t what? I laid in your bed for eight hours eating Cheetos with my shirt off and—”

“Have I told you about the magic brownie incident?”

Quentin shook his head. Eliot rearranged himself so he was propped up on one elbow, his body closer to Quentin’s now. And Quentin, because his brain was always doing inappropriate shit, imagined Eliot on top of him, covering him, holding him down, hips cradled between Quentin’s. Quentin rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow. His traitorous body and mind were clearly conspiring against him, and now his dick was getting hard and, Jesus. He needed to get Eliot _out_ of his bed. 

He also wanted Eliot to stay right where he was more than anything in the world. This was something he dreamed about too—it wasn’t just the untapped possibilities of sex with Eliot (which Quentin imagined would be life-changing). It was also the thought of this kind of lazy, domestic closeness—waking up next to someone and rolling into their arms. He hadn’t had that save for the brief months with Abby in college, and they had never even liked each other all that well, not the way that Quentin liked Eliot. In fact, he had never liked _anyone_ in quite the way he liked Eliot.

“Well, Margo and I had bought a handful of brownies from Josh Hoberman.”

“Who is Josh again?” The name sounded familiar, but Quentin had a hard time grasping onto the name in his fuzzy memories of yesterday.

“Naturalist. Also… sort of a drug dealer. The faculty turns a blind eye because Lipson buys from him, and all of the rest of them qualify as alcoholics. I digress.” 

Eliot’s voice. His voice, low and soft and melodic. He’d thought of that voice so many times while he was… fantasizing, getting off. Telling Quentin he was sexy, that he was _so good_. Oh Christ, Quentin needed to stop. “Go on,” he said into the pillow, muffled. 

“We’d never done magic drugs before. It was right after we moved into the Cottage. Maybe our first or second party. We each ate an entire brownie and... let’s just say that Josh hadn’t perfected his magic weed baking quite yet, and they were _really_. Strong even for me. You with me?”

“Yes,” Quentin said into his pillow. Eliot was still in his bed. God.

“Well, Margo told me she was seeing into other worlds, and I had a panic attack because I thought she might be actually losing her mind. She passed out with her first year roommate, and I was sitting right outside my room, crying because I couldn’t remember how to undo _my own wards._ And Josh—he’s a good guy, but he’s an idiot—kept trying to help me up, and I eventually levitated him, and he fell down the stairs and ended up having to get stitches in the infirmary. I went with him—why anyone _let_ me go anywhere, I have no fucking clue—and I sat with him and cried the whole time. I was terrified that Fogg was going to kick me out. That’s when he told me about the clause in the contracts we sign when we get here stating that any magic done under the influence of student-made drugs will not be punished, granted that the aggressor submits to a truth serum test. I didn’t even have to do that because I couldn’t stop _weeping_ in the infirmary. I was holding Josh’s _hand_.”

Quentin laughed. “God, I’ve never seen you like that.” 

“No. I was… scared. I knew I’d been stupid. And I could have really hurt Josh.” 

Quentin couldn’t imagine Eliot being scared. But he knew the reason behind that fear. Eliot had told him his first week at school that he’d killed his high school bully with the accidental use of telekinetic battle magic. When he’d sat down with Quentin and told him, Quentin had felt so… relieved. Eliot was human, not some actual Adonis sent down to tempt him. Quentin looked over at Eliot and then buried his head in the pillow again. “I know that was hard. You don’t like to, um. Lose control.”

“No. I don’t. You were very low-key in comparison to the Margo-and-Eliot Brownie Incident. You were just very snuggly. Bambi and I thought it was cute.” 

Heat rose through his body, along with an embarrassed, small feeling that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. ‘Cute’ sank down inside of him and added itself to the ‘adorable’ that was already there. He squirmed, his breath hitching a little with the friction against his cock. “It wasn’t cute.”

“You don’t get to decide what I think of you, Q.”

Quentin was quiet. That was a thing he hadn’t considered. He was always so busy putting himself down in comparison to others, and that happened in a very big way with Eliot. Charming, beautiful Eliot. “’S that so?”

“You were fine. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” 

Quentin heard Eliot clear his throat, and he looked up. Eliot’s were on the ceiling. “I know it was annoying—”

“Q, seriously.” When Eliot drew his eyes to Quentin’s face again, he looked a little bit sad. “I did really like Avatar. You’re right. Margo _is_ Toph.”

Quentin smiled. “Oh yeah? Sounds like a nerd thing. I don’t know anything about that show. Nerd.”

Eliot snorted. “I might watch more. I _don’t know._. Never tell anyone.”

“And she is like Toph. Even though Margo would, like, technically be, um. Water tribe, right? Like her whole freezing—”

Eliot put his finger to Quentin’s lips. “Shh. Stop talking.” It was… intended to be playful. Wasn’t it? But Eliot’s finger lingered a second or two before he dropped it. 

“I have to—” Quentin started. His brain felt shaken loose—the only sensation he could focus on was the place where Eliot’s finger had rested on his lips. “Um. Class. Get ready.” Jesus, what were words?

“Oh yeah. Of course. I have a meeting with Sunderland about my thesis.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Eliot was still looking at Quentin in a way that made him feel like he’d just downed a shot of tequila—a heat-spiked endorphin rush. It was a trick of the light. Probably. He was still so hard. And it was… inconvenient. Very, very inconvenient. Fuck.

“What are you working on?”

“Telekinesis. Stuff.”

“That’s wildly specific, Eliot. They’ll probably ask you to work here.”

“Oh God, can you imagine? How depressing.”

Quentin grinned. He could kind of imagine it. He imagined Eliot would get propositioned by students on a daily basis. The thought made something turn over in Quentin’s stomach. “So, it’s an extremely specific, uh, telekinetic research something?”

“That’s what I’ve got written down. I don’t have to do anything but write a proposal this year. I just need to figure out what I’m going to propose. I have some shit I can tell Sunderland today.”

“If you need any, uh. Help. I’m not great at like, magic—”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

Quentin cut him off. He didn’t need false niceties about his _undetermined_ bullshit. “Or talking. Not great at that. But I’m okay at writing. I can look it over. Or whatever. Bounce ideas around. That kind of thing.”

“I might take you up on that,” Eliot said, a sort of slap-happy grin taking over his face, like he’d just been waiting for Quentin to offer. (That was silly. Projection.) He should probably kick Eliot out. He didn’t want to kick Eliot out. He also didn’t need Eliot to witness his not-so-glorious erection, and he was going to have to tell El to slip out over his body so he didn’t have to move. 

“What time is, um. Why would you know the time?” His voice cracked a little, and he turned his head to see look at his Fillory alarm clock. Embarrassing, but it was a collector’s item, and he’d paid fifty-two dollars for it on eBay. Margo loved it, but… with all eight miles of Eliot in his bed, he felt a little silly with his Fillory sheets and his Fillory alarm clock and the Fillory poster above his bed. Overkill? Whatever. God. “Just after nine.” 

“I should—” Eliot started. He was still staring at Quentin. 

“Yeah, me too. I’m um. Nature at ten. I need to look at the spell.”

“I can still help.” 

It took a moment for Quentin to realize what Eliot was talking about. Help with the spells. Shit, that just was an excuse to hang out in Eliot’s room for the most part. “Uh, I think I’ll try to go through all that stuff, like, once. Before class. But that’s it. I’ll sit in the back. Professor Bax won’t call on me. I don’t have time to go through the, uh. Full sequence.” Quentin didn’t even need to know the full sequence until next week. 

“Oh, okay,” Eliot said. He sounded a little disappointed, which was weird. “I’ll go shower.” 

“I’ll probably, um, shower after my first class. I’ll see you… at dinner?” It came out as a question. 

“Yeah, Q. I’ll see you then.” He was waiting like he thought Quentin might get out of bed. Quentin definitely wasn’t going to get out of bed. No fucking way. He rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest. 

Eliot awkwardly climbed over him, his leg brushing against Quentin’s as he hopped off the bed. Quentin, now about to jump out of his skin, was waiting to hear the sound of the door closing. Instead, he could sense Eliot standing at the foot of the bed. “Q, I was wondering—” Eliot stopped. 

“What?”

“Um.” 

“That’s my line, El.” Quentin was still buried in the covers, almost vibrating now. This was so bad. How was he going to live in _the same house_ with Eliot?

“Oh, I was just going to ask if you thought you’d be here this weekend. Because there’s a party Saturday.”

“I live here now, you know,” Quentin said, a little prickly. He didn’t want Eliot to leave, no. But he also really needed leave.

“I know. Just didn’t know if you… had plans.”

“No plans.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“See you then.” He looked up and watched Eliot walk to the door, his robe flowing loose behind him. “Thanks for, um. Taking care of me.”

“Welcome, Q.” 

After Eliot closed the door behind them, Quentin tried to roll out of bed but ended up falling on the floor. He was something akin to hungover, and he was really turned on, and God, _Eliot had slept in his bed._ He sat on the floor and lifted his silencing wards with a quick series of tuts, climbing back in bed. 

What was he going to do? _Not jerk off?_ No fucking way. 

He laid back, grasping himself, hot and hard, and went through the memories of last night, picking out the details—the warmth of Eliot’s fingers against his scalp, the tingling sensation it sent down his spine and out to the tips of his fingers and toes, the solid presence of Eliot next to him in bed, the woodsy-citrus scent of his cologne, his solid, long, lovely body. This time, Quentin’s fantasy had shifted—no longer were the images raw and rough and disjointed; no series of sexual trials. When he got himself off, he was thinking of Eliot, warm and close, legs tangled together, his body pressed over Quentin’s entirely as he slowly pushed inside of him, eyes locked with his. 

Quentin didn’t stop to think about what that meant. 

***

The Cottage was mostly cleared out that Saturday afternoon. Quentin had been lazy most of the day, eating lunch out on the grass with Eliot and Margo and taking a nap after that. He’d spent the remainder of the afternoon on the couch in the common room, practicing with his cards. After he went into the kitchen to get a beer, Margo had reappeared, wearing a pair of neon plaid shorts and a bright pink crop-top that—well, obviously—looked amazing on her, as ridiculous as it was. And it was ridiculous.

“So that’s your 90s themed outfit?” Quentin fell down on the couch next to Margo. There was yet another party tonight, the one Eliot wanted to _make sure_ Quentin would be attending. That had made him feel, like, hopeful, maybe. But after the very weird wake up on Monday morning, Eliot had been normal. Just normal Eliot, joking about blowing Dean Fogg for an extension on his thesis work and making dinner for Quentin and Margo each night, complete with a custom drink of the day. Oh. And talking incessantly about this fucking party. “I feel like we don’t even qualify as children of the 90s.”

“Speak for yourself. You don’t know shit about shit, Coldwater.” Margo was looking at her phone. 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” 

“Exactly.” 

“God. Come on. Eliot won’t shut up about it. I’m expected to like, wear something different?” Quentin was lost. “I wasn’t planning on wearing anything special. I mean. And then. Eliot told me I had to? Or what? Like—do I _need to_?”

“You’re really dense. And anxious. Just relax, Q. Don’t you have a Smashing Pumpkins shirt?”

“Uh. I have a Counting Crows shirt. Is that like—”

“Jesus Christ,” Margo said. “You’re so predictable.”

“I’m _not_. You know nothing about me. I’m a uh, fucking mystery.” Quentin flushed a little. He knew that wasn’t true. 

“No, baby. You’re not. At least not to _me_. I’m the smartest bitch in the room. And I’m not blinded by my lust for you and acting like a moron as a result.”

“What the fuck are you—”

“You’re an idiot. But you’re cute, so you can stay.” Margo laughed and put her arm around him, squeezing him close. “I’ve got a surprise lined up for you. Call it an early birthday present.”

“My birthday is in July, Margo.”

“Irrelevant. Mama calls it what she wants. And I’ve got a perfectly nineties-themed high school plan going on.”

“We were in elementary school—”

“Also irrelevant. Do you spoil everything with questions?”

“Yes?” 

“Bratty little Q.” She patted him on the cheek. “You’ll never know what’s hit you. We need to find you something to wear. Gotta get it all right so it goes off without a hitch so I don’t have to be so fucking annoyed anymore.”

“What?”

“C’mon,” she said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up off the sofa. He’d been lazing around all day, practicing his manifestation skills with his cards and avoiding all the work he needed to catch up on. If he was being 100% honest, he was sitting around watching Eliot set up for the party, which was sort of creepy. But he lived here, so. And Quentin kind of loved Eliot in a polo shirt and suspenders, being ‘casual.’

“Come where?”

“Your room. We’re going to get you an outfit for this 90s jam.”

“In my room? Really? I don’t have anything—”

“Good thing for you I’m a fucking magician.” She was already dragging him up the stairs. “I’ve already got your shit covered. No Counting Crows. Your moody emo-man-child shit is not allowed.”

“You do? Why? What?” Margo was pulling him to his room. 

“I’m an expert at tailoring charms. And I altered one of your flannel shirts—”

“You altered—”

“Shh. You’ll look exactly like Jared Leto in ‘My So Called Life.’”

“Uh. Jared Leto is a giant fucking tool—”

“He wasn’t then. That was his best moment. Really. It’s all been downhill from there for Method Actor Jared Leto.” She was already rummaging around in his closet, pulling out a blue and gray plaid flannel he didn’t recognize and a pair of black jeans he thought he might have bought at some point. “He’s made it so you’re legally required to call him that if you meet in person.” 

“Really?”

Margo gave him a pitying look. “No, baby. It was a joke. You’re so sweet and clueless. Huh. No wonder.”

“No wonder what?”

“Nothing.” 

“Put this on,” she said, handing him the clothes. The jeans seemed to be a pair he did own, but they’d been artfully distressed to give them a ‘more nineties appearance; details are important,’ according to Margo.

“I don’t own this flannel shirt,” Quentin said, petting the fabric between his fingers. It was soft— _’distressed’_ —lie the jeans. Margo treated his room like an open-all-night fun zone, barging in whenever Quentin was working. Or sleeping. Or changing. He was lucky she hadn’t caught him ‘thinking about Eliot.’

“You do now. It used to be red,” she said. “And you have to wear this choker.”

“Choker? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It completes the look.” She brought up a picture of Jared Leto on her phone, wearing the blue and gray flannel with the choker. “Honestly, it’s the only thing that’s going to look decent with your hair.”

“Wow. I get to dress up like a creepy, sexist douche nozzle while wearing a, uh, choker. No, Margo. Just fucking… no.”

Margo paused. “You’ll look like a generic grunge kid. And the select few who really get it will love it. ‘My So Called Life’ is an absolute masterpiece. Besides, Leto wasn’t creepy back then.”

“I’ll wear the flannel, and like, these jeans are my jeans, so it’s uh. That’s fine. I’ll wear them. But no choker.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Margo said. Quentin could tell she was preparing her closing arguments. “But Eliot had a thing for 90s Jared Leto.” 

“Why would I care what Eliot thinks?” He’d said it too quickly. He knew it as soon as it was out of his mouth. She would know what he was thinking, what he’d been fantasizing about every night since his entrance exam. Maybe she already knew. That was a fucking terrifying thought. Margo really didn’t need to know more than she already did. She already looked through him like she was reading his soul, looking for the weak places, but you know, in kind of a loving way. Most of the time. 

“Oh, honey. Don’t you though?”

“No. Why?” Quentin kept his mouth shut. He wanted to give about ten more rebuttals, including the wholly incriminating, ‘We’re just friends’ and ‘I don’t like him like that.’

“If you say so.” She shrugged. “But you should consider wearing the choker. It’s perfect. It’s just a plain black band. That’s all. And you’ll look better than Jared did, anyway.”

“That’s, uh, a total lie.” Quentin crossed his arms. His insides felt squirmy.

“I don’t have time for lying right now. Jared Leto is a tit, and you’re my favorite nerd.”

“You just contradicted like six things you said.”

“I don’t keep track of the truths that fall out of my mouth. I can assure you they all exist simultaneously, and I’m always right. Now.” Margo clapped. “Let’s do something with your hair.”

“What? Margo, no. What are you—” Before he could even get the words out, Margo was raising her hands into Popper 36 (a casting for grooming, he recalled), along with a series of other, unfamiliar movements. Quentin felt something shift in his hair, like it was being gently dried. When he looked in the mirror, the effect was… well, it was nice. He did have sort of a stupid middle part now, but it wasn’t bad, and she’d done something to make it glossy and bright. 

“There, you look so adorable. Touchably soft.”

“Touchably?” He knitted his brows. His hair did look soft but… whatever. He suppressed a fluttering sensation in his gut. He guessed he could get over himself and wear the choker, regardless of whether or not Margo was being honest about Eliot _liking it_. It was a bonus if he did, but that’s all it was. His crush, as he’d concluded a hundred times or more, wasn’t going to work out.

“Yeah. That’s what I said. Anyway, party’s starting in like half an hour. So you can slink around up here, or you can come sit with me after you’re ready. Okay?” She patted him on the arm and didn’t wait for him to respond. This seemed less like a request and more like marching orders, which was sort of applicable to anything Margo said. 

“Okay, I’ll—”

“See you downstairs, Coldwater.”

“Yeah, okay.”

After Margo slammed the door, he put on the flannel and the jeans—and the goddamn choker.

When he descended the stairs, much of the Cottage had been transformed. There was a big punch bowl on the bar, a giant, neon green boombox, and clear, inflatable furniture that had apparently appeared out of nowhere. There were twisty straws and glow-in-the-dark bracelets and neon sunglasses _everywhere_. So much neon. Quentin’s eyes hurt. Margo was sitting on the couch, looking through Instagram, clearly not as impressed as Quentin. 

“I’ve been upstairs for like twenty minutes,” Quentin said. “Now it’s like the 90s barfed all over everything.”

“El works fast. Amazon… and you know, magic.”

“I know about magic.” He took his customary seat on the couch, tucking his knees beneath him and scooting over next to Margo. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and pet his hair. “You need to be more confident. Go for what you want.”

“Uh. That’s good advice, I guess. Like in what way?”

Margo sighed and cupped his cheek in her hand. “Just in every way. Trust me.” 

“What if the thing you want is unattainable?”

“Oh, it’s definitely not,” Margo said, laughing. “It’s very attainable.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. He had no fucking clue what she was talking about. Instead of following that line of inquiry, he opted for getting Margo started on the topic of Buffy, which always got her to stop paying attention to Quentin and his many shortcomings. “Why _didn’t_ you dress as Buffy?”

“I didn’t want to blow too many minds. And who knows? My Buffy get up might make an appearance later. Or maybe at Halloween.”

“You’re such a dork,” Quentin said.

“You’re goddamn right I am, Q. You’re privileged to know me.”

“I am,” he said. He meant it. He listened to Margo’s commentary on ‘Buffy’ as she scrolled through Instagram.

And then the world faded out because Eliot had walked in. He was wearing a white blazer over a turquoise blue sweater and ivory pants—he looked more like a model from a recent men’s magazine 1990s-inspired photoshoot and less like a fashion faux pas. Because of course he did. He was puttering around, not really paying attention to Quentin or Margo, clearly intent on making a refilling punch bowl, much like his flask. A few of their other friends were downstairs now—Alice and Kady were on one of the folding couches, Kady in a Nirvana t-shirt and ripped jeans, Alice wearing a babydoll dress, fishnets, and chunky loafers. Appropriate on both counts. But his eyes kept wandering back to Eliot as he worked the casting for the punch bowl with his strong, graceful hands. 

_God, yes. Give me those hands. Anoint me with them._ Possibly a sacrilegious thought, but definitely warranted, Quentin figured. He looked up from the bar and gave Quentin a little smile, the kind he wore when he was working on something but had noticed Quentin or Margo. His gaze lingered on Quentin for a bit, and he went back to working. 

Eliot’s hands. Quentin guessed he was _quite_ talented with his fingers. He’d certainly considered all the possibilities in the past few weeks, but he liked to review them occasionally for good measure. Strong fingers hooked in his mouth, wrapped around his cock, exploring him, opening him… _Oh Eliot, I’m not that experienced, but I’m ready to try anything you want me to…_

“Earth to Quentin. Fucking beam me up, motherfucker,” Margo said, pinching him right above the elbow. 

“Ow,” he said, slapping her hand away. 

She laughed. “I was talking to you about the last season of Buffy. And you just… disappeared.”

He had gone to the land of thinking about Eliot fucking him. It was a land he lived in a lot these days. A sort of hopeless land of fantasy, but that’s the kind of places Quentin always liked. Fantasy lands he couldn’t get to. He could imagine Eliot as a king of one of those distant worlds. Coolly judgmental, assessing his subjects, in need of a quick fuck from Quentin the servant boy…

Margo pinched him again. “Q. I have a very important question for you.”

“Huh?” He drew his eyes away from Eliot, trying to tune into what Margo was saying. “What important question?” 

“Are you straight?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “No? What does that have to do with anything? We were talking about Buffy.” 

“You weren’t. I was. And then you zoned out like you were at fucking space camp.”

“Space camp?” 

“Landing on the fucking moon, Q. Watching Eliot work with his hands?”

“What? No. I wasn’t.” _I was looking at a whole bunch of different things about Eliot, including but not limited to his hands, but you know._

“If you say so.” Margo picked up her phone and snapped a picture of Eliot. She was doing something with her phone, maybe editing the picture. Quentin pretended he wasn’t trying to watch. She gave him a knowing look and tossed her phone to Quentin. 

She’d put some kind of filter on the picture that blurred out the edges, so it was just focused on Eliot, the long, lean lines of his body, his hands poised above the punch bowl. In the moment Margo had caught him, he was looking over at Quentin and Margo, his eyes intense in the low light. “Good picture,” Quentin said mildly. 

“You know it is. I’m going to post it on Instagram and let all the boys know this dreamboat is single.”

Something sick twisted in Quentin’s stomach. He turned to Margo, who was giving him an intense, questioning look. Was she goading him? She was. She _knew_ , and she was being a dick about Quentin’s crush. “Why don’t you?” Quentin snapped. 

“Kitty’s got claws. Good to know. I like ‘em sassy.” She winked at him. “You know, on second thought, I _won’t_ do that. Seems like trouble. We’d have to bar the door with horde of magician boys banging on the door.”

“Jesus, Margo.”

“What, you want me to advertise for our boy? Or?” She was smiling at him. She was just poking at him, attempting to make him mad. Well, it was working. He understood that this is how it was to be friends with Margo, but this seemed like a new low. He should tell her she was being a total dick, but then again, she probably didn’t know the _depth_ of Quentin’s crush, just that he _had one_.

“No, uh. Whatever, Margo. I’m going to get a drink.” 

“It’s not standard party time yet. 10:24 PM. Get with the times. El’s bar isn’t open yet.”

“Gotta get a head start if I want to, like, get over the fact that I’m wearing this fucking choker.” Quentin strolled past the bar, trying not to look at Eliot. It was _too_ good, too much. He hadn’t thought that a supposedly tacky dress-up party would yield such good results on Eliot. But he should have known better. It was _Eliot_. He was nine feet of human perfection, and Quentin needed a _drink_ to forget the fact that there would be at least thirty more people within the hour, and at least half of them would be lusting after Eliot. And each and every one of them would probably be higher up on the list of people he’d actually bang than Quentin. 

There wasn’t shit in the refrigerator—a few of Todd’s beers, and he was never, ever drinking or eating _anything_ from Todd’s stash _ever_ again, unless it was factory sealed and made by Nabisco. He needed to have a chat with this Josh Hoberman person, too. He needed to give Josh a piece of his mind. Well, he probably wouldn’t do that, but he had half a mind to chew someone out after Margo had teased him. Did she actually think he was straight? Whatever. 

He tapped on the refrigerator handle, fishing around for something to drink. He’d need to get something from Eliot at some point, but… not just yet. Quentin couldn’t face him before he’d had at least two drinks. It was, like, difficult to deal with Eliot’s physical appearance and his flirtatious touches and his weirdly sexy vests that accentuated his slim waist on a regular day. But here Quentin was, wearing a stupid _choker_ and looking like an asshole, and Eliot looked more stunning than usual in that sweater and the jacket—and he just—couldn’t. He slammed the refrigerator door. He turned around, considering just going up to his room and just avoiding the whole party, but as soon as he rounded the corner from the kitchen, he ran right into Eliot. Like, full body smash, nearly falling on his face. 

Eliot caught him by the arms. And now Eliot was holding him by the elbows, his hips pressed right up against Eliot’s body. “Margo said you needed a drink. I made you one.” 

Quentin swallowed, heat rising in his chest and into his face, his splotchy-ugly blush taking him over. “Uh. Thanks? I, um.”

“You look cute.” Eliot moved one hand and traced his finger over the line of the choker, from one side of his neck to the other and back. 

A thrill ran through Quentin’s body, heat blossoming inside him. Eliot’s finger was still on his neck, and he _slipped it_ inside the band, tugging slightly. “Uh. Margo—” He swallowed again, his mouth suddenly very, very dry.

“Cat got your tongue?” Eliot’s thumb brushed down the side of his neck. 

Quentin made an embarrassing, choked off sound. He couldn’t meet Eliot’s eyes. “I just. Probably do. Need that drink.”

“Oh, okay. I made it already.”

“You said,” Quentin choked out.

“You look like Jordan Catalano.”

“I what?” He couldn’t. He couldn’t—what were the words to say next? Eliot was still _touching him_ , their bodies tucked together. The world outside of the him-and-Eliot bubble faded out, Quentin’s world going white around the edges.

“On ‘My So Called Life.’ I always watched the reruns.” 

“Oh. Uh. Margo—”

“She dressed you? Hm, not surprised. You were probably never saw an episode of ‘My So Called Life.’ You were bingeing ‘X-Files’ reruns.’” Eliot’s _other thumb_ was brushing against his elbow. Quentin felt a little queasy, and definitely verging on too horny to function. It was decidedly not a good mix. He probably shouldn’t pour alcohol on it, but he was definitely going to.  
“Yeah. This was her, uh, brainchild, I guess.” He tried to will himself to pull away from Eliot, but he was so fucking sexy, and he’d spent six weeks wanting this so fucking much. He wanted to melt into this for just a moment before he lost El’s attention. 

Eliot turned, breaking his hold on Quentin but keeping his hand on one elbow and leading Quentin over to the bar. There was, as Eliot had promised, a single drink sitting next to the punch bowl. “Bourbon peach smash.”

“Huh?” _So intelligent, Quentin._

“‘Thank you for the fabulous drink, Eliot.’ I believe that’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“Thank you, uh—what’s in it?”

“Bourbon and peaches. Ginger beer. Mint. Seemed like you.”

Eliot’s hand was still on his arm, warm and _big_. Was Eliot _flirting_ with him? If he was, it was probably part of Margo’s hilarious game. Quentin heart really couldn’t handle that shit. “Um. Thanks. That sounds amazing. As always, El.” Quentin took the drink and sipped, savoring it and daring to glance up at Eliot’s face. “It’s delicious.”

Eliot almost looked like he was… curious. His eyes danced over Quentin’s face, a little playful, maybe mischievous. It was a look Quentin had seen before, but it felt different right now. But that was—no. This wasn’t—

“Quentin—” Eliot started. He took in a breath and—Quentin waited.

And Julia barreled into Quentin, nearly knocking over his peach bourbon smash. “Oh my God, there’s _punch_.” 

Eliot smoothly let go of Quentin’s arm. “Julia. So nice of you to join us.”

Eliot’s tone was so cool and imperious that Quentin snickered. He’d shifted from warm and close so quickly—it _did_ show that he wasn’t quite the same with everyone. Quentin was in the inner circle for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend, but he guessed he was among the very elite few… er, two. The tension melted away from him with Julia’s safe presence beside him—and Eliot’s frankly hilarious and poorly hidden disdain. He’d told Quentin once that he thought Julia often treated him like a kid brother, and it irritated him. He guessed being protective was just a thing of Eliot’s. And really—whatever affection Eliot held for him was probably just like that. Like, a real, genuine friendship. An adult one. And Eliot just happened to be touchy-feely, so he was just… touching and feeling Quentin. Right? This all seemed… suddenly… very confusing. 

“Everything looks so great. Really. Thanks for inviting me.” Julia smiled up at Eliot, and it was only then that he realized what she was wearing. She had on purple metallic leggings, a bright yellow top, and a matching purple lamé belt. To top it off, she wore a purple baseball cap quirked to the side, and about ten slap bracelets. Where the fuck did she even find those?

“Quentin invited you,” Eliot said. But he was making a glass of punch for Julia. Because hosting was also a very important part of Eliot’s personality.

“Well, thank you, then, Q. The knowledge students are… not a super exciting crowd on the weekends.”

“Oh?” Eliot said. His eyes shot over to Quentin and then back to Julia. “I had no idea.”

“Okay. Well,” Julia said. “I’m going to borrow Quentin since I haven’t seen him all week—”

“Aren’t you the one with all the extra classes?” Eliot raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like knowledge students in general, and maybe especially not Julia. For reasons, he guessed. Because he’d decided he didn’t like her. To defend Quentin’s honor? Weird.

“I guess I am,” Julia said brightly, pulling Quentin away, sloshing her drink. “I’ve gotta talk to Quentin. I’ll see you later, Eliot. Thanks again—”

Quentin was—yet again—pulled in another direction by one of his people. First Margo. Then Eliot. Now Julia. It was _fine_ , but he was still wearing a choker, and he was getting discombobulated. Julia had pulled him into the corner next to one of the blow-up chairs. “What? What’s going on Julia?” His words came out a bit snappy. He took a breath. “Sorry. It’s been like, a kinda weird night so far.”

“Yeah, I saw you with Officer Cop-a-Feel.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Uh? Eliot? Nothing?” Quentin chewed on his lip. Julia’s eyes were locked on his, searching him out. Definitely searching out his bullshit. “He’s like. Physically affectionate.”

“He was manhandling you.”

“Yeah? He does that.” Quentin scowled. What was Julia getting at? And since when was Eliot manhandling him a bad thing? Maybe Quentin wanted to be manhandled. Well nigh constantly.

“Just… be careful. He’s, you know.” 

“He’s what? My friend?”

“Yeah, of course he is, Q. It’s just… _why_ is he your friend? He was all over you at that party last weekend—”

“Wait, what? _Why_ is he my friend? I don’t fucking know, Julia. Maybe because people want to be friends with me. Or is it just that I’m too pitiful to, uh, have more than one friend?”

“Q. Stop. That’s not what I said.”

“It sure as fuck sounds like what you said.” He took a long gulp of his drink—it was really, _really_ good. He sort of felt like throwing it at Julia. The sacrifice of Eliot’s genius would look great on her face right now. 

“What I’m saying is that he thinks you’re _hot_. It’s a compliment. Okay?”

“Uh. No. I really don’t think that’s the case. Also, he’s my actual friend. I accidentally ate a muffin that got me high—”

“You _what_?”

“Apparently you should eat any stray baked goods in the Physical Kids’ Cottage. Anyway. It was like a… magic hallucinogenic muffin, I guess. Todd gave it to me.”

“The people you live with are crazy—”

“I know. I do know,” Quentin said. “Anyway, Eliot took care of me. We watched DVDs—”

“Those are _not allowed_ on campus!” 

“Jesus Christ, Julia. I’m saying we’re friends. He listens to me. He’s kind. We’re friends.”

“He’s not _kind._ He’s nice to you because he wants to get in your pants.”

Quentin felt like laughing. “Julia, I love you. I know you’re trying to look out for me. Trust me—Eliot and I are friends. I’m going to ignore your opinion that Eliot wouldn’t actually be friends with me. Because it’s hurtful and shitty. And as much as I beat myself up about every fucking thing I do, I know that he’s my real friend.” 

“He’s trying to fuck you, Quentin.”

“You’re misreading, like, everything. He’s not—I’m not. He’s way out of my league, Jules.”

Julia looked at him quizzically, gears turning and clicking in her head. “You _like_ him.”

“I… what?”

“He’s going to take advantage of you.”

“You’re really jumping to conclusions—”

“Yeah, no. I’m not. I’m no psychic, but I’m about 99% certain he wants to seduce you.” 

“Then why hasn’t he done it?”

Julia shrugged. “Don’t know. But he will. And then he’ll—he’ll ditch you. Okay? Don’t let that happen.” 

“I won’t? Because it’s not going to happen? Okay. Just—drop it. Wear your weird outfit and enjoy this weird party, okay?” Quentin tapped his foot. “Speaking of _boys_ , are you seeing Penny? Because I have _plenty_ of, uh, things to say about that.”

“Um. Maybe? It’s complicated.” She crossed her arms defensively. Point, Quentin. Speaking of hooking up with assholes, right? “We’re… getting to know each other.”

“May I, um, infringe on your life and tell you to not be near him because he might be a dick? Oh wait. I know he’s a dick. I lived with him.”

“There’s more to him. But I know. He has… anger issues. That’s what I have a hard time getting past. But… I get your point. I’ll stay out of it. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt. Because nothing is going to happen. Okay? Please just… stop talking about it.”

But she wasn’t done. “Eliot is _not_ a relationship person. One of the knowledge guys—Rodrick—he said he and Eliot were hooking up for a month or so last year, and Eliot just… ghosted him after Rodrick asked him on a date. That’s the last thing I’ll say. And if you like him, then, you know, there’s more of a risk—”

“Drop it, Jules. Let’s just have a good time at the party. I’m getting another drink.” He shook his glass at her and squeezed her arm to show that there were no hard feelings. His feelings were a little hard, but it was Julia. This is what she was like. And she was deluded to think that Eliot was in any way interested in him. He wasn’t in danger of being treated like Rodrick because there was nothing between him and Eliot save for a few hallucinogen-induced cuddles (and a lot of follow up masturbation on Quentin’s part). But when he wandered back over to the bar, he saw that Eliot was watching him. He still looked playful, but there was something else there, too, something darker. Just the thought sent a hot spike through Quentin, like he’d downed an extra shot. 

When he made it over to the bar, Eliot already had his drink prepared. He handed it to Quentin, his fingers brushing against the back of Quentin’s hand. “You look so cute.”

“Uh.” Quentin blushed. “Thanks? You look. I mean. Always amazing.” 

He stood there, talking to Eliot as long as he could manage. It was just… so much. This night seemed different, like a breaking point. And he couldn’t stay around Eliot—he just couldn’t. “I’ve gotta—uh,” he said. “Um. Talk to Todd.”

“Oh, okay.” He traced his fingers over Quentin’s arm again. Quentin shivered. “Come back, okay?”

“Uh. Absolutely.” He turned, half-desperate to get away from Eliot, half wanting-to-stay forever. Julia gave him a look, and he shrugged. Now, he had to think of something to say to Todd. Didn’t matter. Todd would definitely fill the silence.

If Eliot did like him _like that_ , would he cast Quentin to the side? Or somehow get him removed from the Cottage? That sequence of events was unimaginable, but Julia had planted a seed of fear inside of him, and it flared each time he caught Eliot’s eye. Now, he was avoiding Eliot instead of hanging around him. It was just as well, really. He’d lost most of his ability to speak to Eliot while he was wearing his turquoise sweater—and the choker made him feel the phantom touch of Eliot’s fingers against his skin. 

He was talking for a long time to Todd—and fucking Josh Hoberman, who was actually really nice, but yeah, he could see how Josh had accidentally poisoned a whole bunch of people with hallucinogens. He probably shouldn’t be baking things and distributing them without an oversight committee. Josh was pleasantly nerdy, and Todd was unintentionally amusing and still extremely apologetic about Quentin’s long, bad trip. 

“It’s fine, Todd,” Quentin said for the millionth time. He was on his fourth bourbon peach smash—procured from Eliot, who seemed very confused about Quentin’s sudden burst of socializing—and he was feeling magnanimous. “They were definitely good drugs—”

“Damn right,” Josh said.

“I mean, it was mildly terrifying—and I almost had, like, kind of a panic attack. But. That’s what I get for not checking what Todd meant by ‘special muffins.’” Quentin laughed, doubled over, realizing he was maybe a little more drunk at this point than he’d intended. But getting drinks was his excuse to see Eliot, and it was like, an activity sort of thing, where he didn’t have to stare longingly into Eliot’s eyes or thing too much about his hands. Because his whole crush had sort of peaked. And there was Julia with her _warning_ that made Eliot seem... sinister? No. Not really. More like… it just made Quentin nervous, but then he was always fucking nervous. And Eliot wasn’t. And yeah, he just couldn’t focus too much on that _possibility_ because it couldn’t really be possible that El liked him, not like _that_. And if he did—well, he didn’t. There was no use considering it.

“You alright, man?” Josh leaned down to look at Quentin, who was still doubled over laughing. 

“I’m, uh—I’m fine.” He stood up and tucked his hair behind his ear, a little dizzy. Maybe he _should_ go find Eliot. He finished off his drink and clinked the ice around in the glass. That was a good excuse to see Eliot. He’d like that. 

“Okay, bitches—” Quentin heard Margo from somewhere near the dining room. “The power of Margo compels you.” 

Quentin looked around to see all, like, five feet of Margo on top of the dining room table, clapping her hands and holding an empty bottle of wine. “It’s time for your personal 90s hell—spin the bottle. Now, hey, you might say, Margo, that’s a fuckin’ timeless classic; you can’t ascribe it to any one generation. Well, I can, and I have. Get ready, motherfuckers. It’s spin the bottle—tournament style.” 

“Oh God,” Quentin moaned to no one in particular. “I’m out. That’s a hard, uh, fucking pass.”

Quentin found himself scanning the Cottage for Eliot. He spotted him leaning by the fireplace, looking bored and rolling his eyes. _Good. He’s not going to play. Okay._ While he was watching Eliot, though, some guy—from the illusion cohort, maybe—sidled up to Eliot and started chatting with him. Eliot smiled, and something went cold inside of Quentin. He knew, he _knew_ , that Eliot was out of his league, and it wouldn’t work, no matter what Quentin’s feelings were—and like Jules had said, he wasn’t a _relationship_ kind of guy, but he didn’t want to see that.

He watched Margo organizing people into, like, teams or something. He didn’t know. He kept glancing over at Eliot, who was still talking to that illusion guy. The pit of his stomach felt cold and sick, and he could feel the levity he’d cultivated seeping out of him. He couldn’t do this. He needed to get out—leave. Sit outside or go to his room. He headed for the stairs, studiously avoiding the corner where Eliot was chatting with his new friend. Maybe he shouldn’t have strayed away from El after he’d made Quentin’s drinks. Maybe he should have been, like, available. Maybe— _maybe_ —Eliot would take pity on him. No. He didn’t want that. No pity fucking, or whatever. And there was no way he was sticking around for fucking spin the—

“Bottle, spin the bottle, come the fuck on—” Margo had him by the arm and was pulling him over towards the dining room, toward _Eliot_.

“Margo, no. I’m not being dragged around anymore, and I’m going to bed—”

“It’s barely midnight, Coldwater. The Cottage isn’t powering down for at least another three hours. And this is your—” Margo leaned in and whispered, mojito on her breath. “—birthday present.”

“How the fuck is an awkward social game that requires, uh, like, physical contact—how is _that_ a present for _me_? Plus, it’s not my fucking birthday, Margo.” 

“C’mon. It’ll be fun. I promise. Q. Come on.” 

He looked down at Margo. It was clear she was the type of person that after school specials warned teenagers about. In fact, that was probably what she was going for with her 90s costume—person most likely to make you smoke behind the school gym because _everyone else was doing it_ and she wanted to see you cough. “No.”

“I have a surprise.” She wiggled an eyebrow. Her eyes were a bit glassy, and she giggled. She was drunk, maybe also stoned, and she had a firm grip on his arm. “Please. Come on. I planned this.”

“Margo. I really don’t like the sound of that. Like—do you know how bad that sounds? Coming from you.”

She laughed and buried her head against his shoulder. “You are a _fool_. I promise I do _not_ have evil intentions. You’d _know_ if I didn’t like you.”

“So this isn’t some self-motivated plan, for like, your own amusement?” Quentin looked up and saw that Eliot was at the edge of the circle of people Margo had rallied to play. 

“Oh, it’s an entirely self-motivated plan for my own amusement, Q.” She smiled at him, sort of sweetly? But also sort of scarily. “It’s also for you.” She had a tight grip on his arm. For a slight woman, she was surprisingly strong. 

“I’m not getting out of this, am I?”

“No. You’re not. I warded your room so you can’t get in it.”

“Jesus Christ, Margo.”

“The ends justify the means,” she said, dragging him toward the dining room. Eliot was standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed. 

“That’s not, like, a good thing to say about anything—like, uh, _historically_. Margo.” She wasn’t listening to him.

“What are you doing to the poor boy, Bambi?” Eliot sidled up to Quentin and took his free arm. “She’s making you play her bullshit game, isn’t she? She said I had to do it, too. Ordinarily, I don’t deny her anything. But this—”

“Your room is warded too.” 

“You know I can get past whatever you threw up, bitch.” 

She squinted at Eliot. “I’d like to see you try, you ludicrous giraffe.”

“Good God. I think she’s rather drunk. Wouldn’t you say, Q? Falling down on her game.”

“Definitely,” Quentin said, pretty tipsy himself and unable to keep from grinning. Eliot was now here, where he _should be_. His friend, Eliot. Touching his arm, Eliot. Tall and stunning, Eliot. Why had it been a good idea to keep away from him? He’d never do it again. “Giraffe is really a, uh, overused insult for tall people. Some would say it’s not even, like, marginally creative.”

Eliot laughed, and Margo pinched Quentin before turning around and shouting at the dazed partygoers who were absolutely not comprehending her game plan. Margo launched herself up onto the table again, and she started spouting rules that sounded about as confusing as Welters, having something to do with rounds and teams, and she kept saying the word ’tournament’ and shouting orders at Todd. Of course Margo would take the nightmare scenario of spin the bottle and make it into even more of a nightmare by somehow _making it into a sport_. Admittedly, the sight of her in her plaid shorts, looking both hotter and more terrifying than everyone in the room while shouting orders was hilarious. No one understood what they were supposed to be doing, but they were all _doing it_ , because it was Margo.

Quentin was so busy watching her and laughing that he almost forgot Eliot had his arm again. He hadn’t _entirely_ forgotten because Eliot was right there, towering over him, warm and smelling faintly of tobacco and that intoxicating citrus-spice cologne. Quentin was perhaps drunk enough now to form words around Eliot. So it was good. This was good. There was no other guy slinking around, and Margo might forget they were supposed to participate. She probably wouldn’t. But she _might_.

“I’ll get you another drink,” Eliot whispered in his ear, his breath hot and close, and a shiver trilled through him.

“Hm... Lemme think about that.” Quentin looked up, and Eliot’s eyes were dark, flickering. “Definitely. I need another drink to, like.” He gestured to Margo’s kissing tournament, which really couldn’t be sanitary. “Get through this and escape.”

Eliot tucked Quentin’s arm tighter into his and walked him over to the bar, where he showily used his telekinesis to pour Quentin a vodka tonic. Quentin watched Eliot’s hands—so fucking sensual and full of laconic grace, his fingers falling into each movement perfectly. “I’m lazy. Can’t be bothered to muddle any more peaches and mint. Next time.” He squeezed a lime and handed the drink to Quentin.

“I, uh. This is fine,” Quentin said. “I mean, it’s great. I like tonic water.”

Eliot’s lip quirked up on one side. “Plain tonic water?”

“It’s sweet. I like sweet things,” Quentin said, suddenly aware that his words sounded both _dumb_ and _flirtatious_. “I mean. With vodka or gin. Or whatever. And lime.”

Eliot lifted his finger and absently petted at Quentin’s choker again. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, soft and low.

Quentin swallowed hard and suppressed a shiver. The one thing he wanted was so close. And it was all he could do to remember to breathe. “I’ve been told.” 

“In a good way. The best way.” Eliot was watching Quentin, touching him, his expression indulgent and… maybe charmed? And okay, maybe it wasn’t such a huge leap to think that Eliot was hitting on Quentin because this was… well, if he saw El acting like this with another guy, he’d be really fucking jealous. So, okay. If Julia was right… Quentin felt woozy. She couldn’t be. Eliot was light years out of his league. 

“Okay, bozos, you’re coming with me.” Margo had waltzed over and grabbed them before Quentin really had a chance to think this out. 

“What the fuck, Margo?” Eliot furrowed his brow, but she was pulling both of them to the absolutely stupid spectacle that she’d created. There was some nature guy making out with that illusion guy who’d been hitting on Eliot. Good for them. Points to the nature guy for not hitting on Eliot right now.

“Are you—” Quentin started.

“I think we might not have a choice,” Eliot said. “Don’t worry—”

“You’re on team A, El,” Margo said. “With me. Quentin, you’re with Todd.”

“Todd? Jesus Christ.” He looked at Eliot, pleading, as Margo hurried him to the other side of the table. 

“Quentin! I’ll be your team captain.” Todd clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Hey Todd.” Quentin downed most of his drink nervously. More people were making out, and the bottle was spinning, and Quentin was wholly confused as to why there were _teams_. Because Margo. Trust her to make a party game into a competition. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I’m not really sure. Margo just told me to stand here. So, I am. There are like, teams. I think there’s a ranking system. Someone’s keeping track of it. I’m not.” Todd was, like always, wearing an enormous, confused grin. “Super fun, though. I kissed that girl.” He pointed. “Don’t know her name. But cool, right? Margo says you’re up next.”

He looked over at Eliot, who was standing next to Margo, arms crossed. Margo was saying something to Eliot and pushing him forward, and he could see Eliot’s mouth moving to form the words ‘bad idea’ and ‘what the fuck’ and ‘absolutely not.’ And Quentin, being an idiot, was a little late to the party in realizing what the actual fuck was going on. But everything was falling into place. Margo’s game. She was… wow. Eliot was—up next. This was… really fucking shitty. He needed to _go_. His stomach turned over, and he felt like he might lose the vodka tonic all over Todd’s shoes. 

“This is stupid. I’m out.” He turned to go upstairs and hide—in the hallway, he guessed. Fucking Margo. And her fucking wards. Goddammit. No. 

Todd, who wasn’t listening, pushed Quentin up to the table. “You’re up!”

“Yeah, no. I’m not—” Quentin downed the rest of his drink because why the fuck wouldn’t he? He was surrounded by people, and he sort of felt like he might pass out, and Eliot was staring at him across the table, looking mortified. And why the hell did Margo think this was good idea? There were maybe ten people around the table, and one of them was Eliot. And everyone here was a magician, so the bottle could really end up wherever the hell _Margo wanted_. This was so fucked up.

“Todd, I’ve gotta get out of—”

“You got ‘em, champ,” Todd said.

“And go!” Margo let out a jolt of magic that set the bottle spinning. 

And of course, it landed with one end pointed right at Quentin. The other was facing Eliot. 

“Our next two contestants are up—and oh look, it’s Eliot and Quentin. Go on boys—” Margo was saying something about a scoring system (gross) and judges and some complex criteria she seemed to be keeping track of somehow, even though she seemed pretty wasted. It all faded into background noise as he looked up and met Eliot’s eyes. He looked _stricken_ , shocked, a bit pale. Margo often did shit like this at parties—designed some amped up version of a drinking game and somehow got everyone to participate, but this was the first time it felt _shitty_ and not fun. And now Eliot was upset—about being forced to kiss Quentin? Or? Quentin’s stomach lurched, and he turned around, pushing past Todd and the other random people on his team (fucking _Margo_ and her ludicrous ideas), and he ran upstairs for the third floor, barely seeing the steps as his feet landed on them. 

And sure as shit, his wards had been replaced with Margo’s. Yet another fucked up thing about tonight. He’d been wrong about everything. About Eliot and Margo being friends with him, about this being a special place where maybe, just maybe, he could thrive. And how incredibly fucking stupid of him to think for a second that Eliot— _that Eliot would want him._ There was a surge inside of him, black and angry, and he raised his hands to cast an advanced ward-breaking spell he was definitely not well-trained enough to attempt, shoving a brutal force of magic at the door and cracking the wards Margo had cast, watching them fall in a shimmer around the bottom of the door frame. 

“Huh. How about that.” He took it in for a beat, a little confused, and then he flung open his door and slammed it behind him. He cast his own wards as best he could (while drunk and fucking angry) before kicking off his shoes and tucking himself into the bed and ripping off the stupid fucking choker and shucking himself out of the goddamn flannel and the distressed jeans. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something good, something that could stave off the panic that was surely coming, something that could hold back the tidal force of his depression and all the awful, belittling thoughts it carried in its wake. 

There was a knock at the door. God. Couldn’t they just leave him the fuck alone? Maybe Eliot thought it was just so funny, too. He hadn’t _looked_ that way. But.

“Go away,” he shouted. 

“Q. Come on. Let me in.” It was Eliot. Of course it was.

He burrowed down under the covers, hiding his head. “No.”

“Quentin. Listen. I just got done telling Margo she fucked up. She’s sorry, but she won’t come around until tomorrow. Trust me. By then, she’ll be begging your forgiveness. Inasmuch as she does, which won’t involve an actual apology. Maybe poorly made waffles. Or a gross kale smoothie.”

He felt himself smiling just a little, buried under the pillow. He swallowed but didn’t say anything. Was this—could he trust what Eliot was saying? Eliot had never given him reason to believe otherwise. Had he? And he wasn’t involved in whatever amusement Margo thought she’d get out of this. That much was clear. 

“Margo’s wards are ironclad. You shouldn’t have been able to get them down. But you did. Maybe—like I’ve been _telling you_ —you’re better at magic than you think.”

He lifted his head up out of his nest of covers and yelled at the door. “I was just _angry_. I’m still angry.”

“And powerful. Look. I can help you cast a sobering charm so you won’t feel like shit in the morning. And I brought you a water. You can kick me out after that. Okay?”

Quentin paused for a moment. He didn’t hear Eliot walking off down the hall, so he was still there, listening. Waiting. He sighed. “You can—fucking—take down my wards; mine are shit. I’m _not_ getting up.”

He heard Eliot move in the hallway and then felt the familiar prickle of his magic, sharp and metallic, broad sweeping currents of force, nothing like Quentin’s fiddly, little magic that was best suited to card tricks. 

“Your wards are down. I’m coming in.” 

“Fine.” Quentin tucked himself under the pillow again. 

The door opened and closed, and he heard Eliot’s footsteps in the room. Quentin felt the crackle of Eliot’s magic again, and the light on his bedside table went on. “I’m putting the water on your table, and I’m going to sit down on the bed, okay?”

“Fine.” 

The bed moved next to him as Eliot sat down. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away from it. “Q—I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should have known what was going on.”

“Not your fault. I guess. Margo wanted her, um. Amusement.” He wiggled toward the edge of his pillow so his face was halfway out and he could actually talk to Eliot without sounding like he was in a padded room. He guessed he needed to actually _talk to Eliot_ , like for real. This was just not fucking sustainable. Maybe it would be easier if he stayed right at this level of almost-spinning drunk, no sobering charm. Then he could pass out and avoid a middle-of-the-night panic attack.

Eliot cleared his throat like he wanted to say something. “I know you didn’t want—” He stopped.

“What didn’t I want?” Quentin’s head was crafting unnecessary and brutally hopeful thoughts, but he banished them.

“I know you didn’t want to be in the middle of a party game with a bunch of people—and then you were going to have to kiss a guy—maybe me—and I know you don’t want to—because you’re not—you’re straight, right?” Eliot’s words were all coming out in a rush, progressively higher pitched toward the end. He sounded nervous. Eliot Waugh, Party King. _Nervous_.

And Quentin—Quentin laughed. Into the sheets, still half-hiding under his pillow. He should be anxious, like he _always_ was around Eliot. But he wasn’t. It was just—this was ludicrous. 

“El—that’s not.” He couldn’t stop laughing; his throat hurt from it. That hoarse, angry kind of laugh that would certainly lead to tears if he kept on with it. 

“What—what are you—Quentin. _Quentin_. Cut it out.” 

“Jesus Christ, Eliot.” He kept laughing until Eliot shook him. 

“Q.”

“What?” Another laugh bubbled up from inside of him and erupted. He bit down on his lip. 

“What are you—why are you laughing?” 

He groaned. “I don’t know, _Eliot._ Maybe because I literally, like, actually told you that I—that I had a crush on David Duchovny when I was growing up. Like, I think I’ve mentioned it _more than once_. But I guess since the world _revolves around you_ and your like, _incorrect assumptions_ about people—so that’s not the—you’re wrong about the—I mean of course I don’t want to kiss _anyone_ in a room full of like, forty _very drunk magicians_.” Quentin pressed his nose against his flannel Fillory sheets, right above the illustration of the Outer Islands. If he could just sink into the sheets…

“Oh,” Eliot said. “Oooh.”

“For a smart person, you’re like. Really dense. I guess it’s like a _biphobic_ bias. Or maybe you just assume you’re like the only person on campus—”

“Wait. Stop.”

Quentin didn’t stop. “—who’s queer—or I don’t know. You’re just the _best at it_. You just didn’t even—listen—when I was talking— _God_.”

“I guess I didn’t—”

“Is that why Margo asked me if I’m straight? So she could like, further embarrass me? Or what?”

“No. That’s not why.” Eliot’s voice was strangely flat. “I didn’t know she asked you that.”

“Did she just wanted to see me to make a fool of myself? That’s—that’s even worse—I just.” Dizzying panic rose through his body. “I don’t need everyone knowing that I have a—” His pulse was racing, heart in his throat. “Whatever. I should get some sleep.”

“That you what?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Quentin pulled his blanket over his head and scooted down toward the end of the bed, pressing his feet against the wall.

“Tell me or I’m not leaving.” Eliot’s voice was firm, and he put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder again. This time, Quentin didn’t flinch away. Sparks lit where Eliot touched him, even in this awful place where he might end up losing Eliot because of his stupid, pitiful crush. 

Well, fuck. “I don’t want you to leave.” Quentin paused, listening to Eliot breathe. His hand was heavy on Quentin’s shoulder. He took a deep breath, shaking and nauseated. “But you probably want to leave—just—I don’t blame you—I mean it makes it, um, awkward and maybe I should just move out of the Cottage. I mean, I wouldn’t want to stay friends with me if—you know—I’m just—”

“Quentin.”

“I just—I wouldn’t want to be—but I’m—” Quentin tried to take another breath, but his heart was pounding, his breath coming quick now.

“Let’s rewind, shall we?”

“Hmmph.” He was a disaster. He lay under the covers, breathing rapidly, wanting to run. Wanting to push into Eliot’s hands. 

“What are you saying?” Eliot’s words were careful, measured. His thumb made lazy circles just beneath Quentin’s shoulder blade. “You know, Q. Maybe that sobering charm—”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t want to, uh. I don’t want to move.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, patient and kind, just as he always had been with Quentin. Quentin took a long, jagged breath, heart still racing. He heard Eliot’s hands, skin brushing against skin, his fingers moving, a low murmur of some ancient language that Quentin didn’t recognize. The spinning, dizzy, overworked feeling of drunkenness slipped from his body like the water draining from a tub. In a moment, all that was left was a dull headache and a feeling of overwhelming exhaustion. Eliot was here. He was here, and he was asking, and he wanted to know what the fuck was happening with Quentin.

“Uh. Thanks.” His throat felt sore; when he swallowed, he tasted metal at the back of his throat.

“Pity it doesn’t work on magic drugs. Maybe not such a pity. I never would have watched ‘Avatar’ otherwise.”

Quentin snorted, still mostly under his blanket. “You’re welcome.”

“So… Quentin. You’re not moving out of the Cottage. You belong here. You’re a physical kid. And you’re our friend. Okay?”

He paused, tense silence hanging heavy in the air between them. “Okay,” he said, muffled into the sheets.

“Start over.” The comforting weight of Eliot’s hand fell on his shoulder again. 

“I mean. We don’t have to do this,” Quentin said. He pulled the pillow over his head. Again.

“I don’t relish serious conversations in the wee hours of the morning. Or ever. But this seems important.”

Quentin was chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Fuck. I like you, okay? I had a—stupid crush—and I know you wouldn’t want someone like me—I _know_ it—but maybe I was a little bit hopeful? Sometimes? But I know that’s not—like. How you see me. That’s fine. I’m not like a random, like, nature… person. Or fuck, whatever. But I thought Margo was, um. Doing that because she knew and she thought it was funny—”

Eliot sighed, and Quentin felt him shift on the bed. His fingers had stopped moving over Quentin’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, the covers and the pillow were gone—pulled back—and there was Eliot inches from his face, lips pink and open, his hand cupping Quentin’s cheek. “For a smart person, Q, you’re quite dense. You think I wouldn’t want to kiss you? You’re crazy.” 

“Uh.” Quentin’s eyes went wide. He studied Eliot’s face and saw that searching-wanting look, dark and hungry. This was… well. He wasn’t expecting _this_.

He brushed his thumb just beneath Quentin’s bottom lip. “Can I collect on that kiss now that we’re not in front of forty magicians?”

“Um.” He pursed his lips and then let out a quick huff of air, shuddering with excitement and desire so intense he felt like he might lift off the bed. Heat bloomed inside of him, stirring in his core and shooting down through his body. He grabbed at the collar of Eliot’s sweater, dragging him down and probably ruining the stitching—he could fix that, though, tomorrow—

Eliot’s mouth met his, hot and open, their lips slotted together like they’d been made to fit. That fiery pit of wanting that ignited each time he was near Eliot turned to a roaring furnace, his body rising to meet Eliot’s as he pulled the covers away and lowered his body over Quentin’s. His hands roamed under Quentin’s shirt, making him shudder with want until he felt unhinged.

“Oh—” Quentin’s body arched up and away from the bed. This was—oh, this was. His brain scrambled for the words, but they escaped him. Eliot’s long, clever fingers, traced over his ribs, one hand settling just above the divot of his hip, thumb tracing over the bone there. There was no echo of _I’m not good enough_ as Eliot kissed him, hot and hungry and near-desperate, because Eliot didn’t give him time to think. A thumb brushed over one already hard nipple, and Quentin let out a low, breathy moan, a jolt of arousal shooting straight to his cock, stiffening where Eliot was pressed against him. His hand moved to Eliot’s face, fingertips touching the shell of his ear, thumb running over his jaw and tracing over the texture of faint stubble. His mind drew away from the insecurity and uncertainty, all of those terrible things drowned out by the sound of Eliot’s kissing him, the feeling of his tongue licking inside his mouth, Eliot’s teeth as they pulled at his lower lip, Eliot’s hips gently moving against his cock.

“Oh—oh—” Quentin said again, moving his body up against Eliot’s as he ran his fingers over Eliot’s arms.

“Mm, you like that,” Eliot said, lips pressed to Quentin’s mouth, smiling like an idiot. “Could have been doing this for weeks.” 

“Well, if you, um, _asked_ —” 

Eliot cut him off with a kiss, pressing down against Quentin’s body, lifting his leg and running his hand over his thigh, leaving a trail of hairs standing on end, making Quentin suddenly _very_ aware of only wearing boxers. Eliot drew in close, cradled between Quentin’s hips as he kissed him until his breath was coming fast, ragged and panting.

“Eliot, please,” he said, but he didn’t _know_ what he wanted. He’d never _done this_. Eliot groaned into his mouth, his hips hitching forward. Quentin could feel the outline of Eliot’s hard dick, pressing against his thigh, sending a zing of wanting through his every nerve ending.

“What do you—” Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s jaw, leaving a trail of fire just beneath Quentin’s skin. “What do you want, Q?”

“I don’t, um. I’ve uh. Never. Or. Not really? With a guy. I mean. A hand job. In college. But. I’m—interested. In everything.” 

Eliot pulled away to look at Quentin, smoothing his hair with one hand, a faint smile on his face, slightly amused. Quentin sort of wanted to smack the look off his face, but he also wanted to touch Eliot’s dick. So. “Okay, baby,” he said soothingly. “Clothes on or off? I just wanna make you feel good.”

Quentin was chewing on his lip, wishing he was still drunk, but also maybe a little grateful he wasn’t, because he’d remember every part of stunning, sensual Eliot—since this was likely to end quickly after he was done with Quentin. They’d be friends, though, after this—wouldn’t they? This entire hook-up was _extremely_ ill-advised, and they should really clear things up, but there was no way he was stopping. His lizard brain was in control, and he was so hard and so fucking… ready. “Off?”

“Is that a question?”

“Uh. No.” He ran his hand over Eliot’s forearm, tracing the long line of his arm down to his graceful wrist. “Off. I want to. See you. Feel you.”

Eliot lowered his lips to Quentin’s again, slow and gentle this time, his hand soothing against his cheek. He rolled Quentin onto his side, their bodies still tangled together as Eliot pulled Quentin’s shirt over his head carefully, pressing his lips immediately to the underside of his jaw, trailing down over his neck, rubbing his thumbs over Quentin’s nipples, sending shocks like electricity glittering through him. He didn’t know—had never known that it could be as good as this.

“Ah—Eliot—you feel so—it feels so—I want—“

Eliot laughed a little and moved his hands lower, one palming Quentin’s stiff cock, making his hips buck into Eliot’s hand, searching for deeper sensation, _more more more_. He tried to drag Eliot in closer to him, fumbled with his belt and the button of the ivory pants that made his legs look so long, so graceful. 

“Slow down, darling. We don’t have to be anywhere.”

_But what if this is it?_

“I—okay.” Quentin worried his lower lip, his body flushed hot and trembling with impatience. 

Quentin slowed his breathing, letting Eliot kiss him deep and slow as he worked Quentin’s boxers down over his hips and chucked them to the floor. He pushed Quentin back down on the bed, completely naked now, pushing one leg down so he was on display, legs open. Wanton. Shameless. Fuck, it felt so good.“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re—that’s crazy.” 

“Don’t insult yourself. Not allowed.” Eliot was really looking at him, taking him in, fingers fluttering over his arms, his legs, tracing over his ribs again and down once more to wrap around his aching dick. Quentin’s hips arched off the bed and he let out an embarrassing, needy groan. Eliot rubbed his thumb over the tip of his dick, smearing a bit of precum across the head and making Quentin sob.

“Oh fuck, El.” Quentin moaned, and Eliot, smiling, pinned one of his hips down and stroked him lazily, watching him as he gasped at Eliot’s touch. And then he took his hand away, leaving Quentin’s cock aching, dripping on his belly. He was breathing hard now, his thoughts disjointed and floating, eyes focused on Eliot and his sharp jaw, his curls loose now and falling over his forehead.

Eliot removed his sweater nonchalantly, folding it and putting it on the end of Quentin’s bed like Quentin wasn’t lying there, naked and panting with his dick out. He removed all of his clothing with the same fastidiousness, somehow managing to make it all look _incredibly hot_ rather than awkward. Quentin’s breath hitched when Eliot’s cock sprang free, long and heavy and flushed and _magnificent_. That was a stupid word to ascribe to anyone’s dick, but it was, Quentin felt, absolutely appropriate in Eliot’s case. 

“Fuck. You’re big,” Quentin said, low and breathy. 

Eliot grinned, lascivious. “I’ve been told. And you have such a pretty cock, don’t you?” Eliot didn’t wait for Quentin to answer—he was on him, kissing beneath the sensitive line of his jaw and up to the space behind his ear, nuzzling against the side of his neck, his fingers loosely wrapped around Quentin’s cock, teasing him with half-strokes as Quentin let out jagged, broken noises against Eliot’s skin. And Eliot… he was acting like he wanted Quentin just as much as Quentin wanted him. That just seemed… fucking impossible. All of this. How many time had that word crossed his mind tonight? 

Quentin let out embarrassing little moans and gasps as Eliot situated himself between Quentin’s legs again, their cocks nested together, hot and tight between their bodies. “Is this okay?” Eliot whispered.

“Yeah, I’m—yes—” Quentin didn’t know what the fuck he was going to say, and it didn’t matter. At all. Nothing else mattered apart from this.

“I thought about this,” Eliot said, which was—maybe something he was just saying. “From the second I saw you. Wanted you. Laid out just like this.”

Quentin was just—speechless. Breathless. Bewildered and confused, body on fire, hips canted toward Eliot’s, his legs lifting and locking against the back of Eliot’s thighs. 

Eliot’s hips seemed to stutter forward reflexively as he licked and nibbled at Quentin’s ear, brushing his hair to the side, kissing down his neck again and pressing his mouth to Quentin’s pulse point. He bit down there lightly and sucked at the skin, licking over it to soothe the mark. 

“I wanted you,” Quentin said, not quite realizing he was saying it. “Keep thinking about you and your hands, your mouth— _oh_ —”

Eliot kissed across Quentin’s collarbone, down to the hollow of his neck, licking and nibbling his way down to one pebbled nipple and the other, making Quentin’s mind white out, a keening cry coming from his throat as Eliot thrust hard between his legs, cocks sliding together. 

“You like my hands?” Eliot whispered, lips pressed to Quentin’s neck again. 

“Mm—yeah—”

“Good. I’m going to use my hands on you tonight, okay? And maybe my mouth in the morning.” He lifted up and brushed Quentin’s hair away from his face. “That work for you?”

_Holy fuck._

“Uh. Yes?”

“And I’ll teach you exactly what I want _you_ to do,” Eliot added, voice rough. “You think you’ll be a good student?”

“Oh—yeah—I’m—I’ll do whatever you want—” Quentin legitimately had no idea what he was saying at this point as Eliot thrust against him, their cocks so close and magma-hot, their bodies slicked with sweat. It must have been the right response because Eliot was groaning, loud and long, and moving so he was hovering over Quentin again. 

Eliot brought his hand up into a quick tut that covered his fingers with lube, and he brought his hand down, gripping their cocks together and starting to stroke. The fire within Quentin blazed, and he made hungry sounds, unable to control them. 

Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot because he couldn’t bear to look away. Eliot looked as wrecked as Quentin felt—his curls damp with sweat, pupils blown with just the barest hint of hazel-green around the edges. His lips were red and wet from kissing, the faintest hint of stubble burn where Quentin had kissed along his neck. That’s what Quentin focused on as Eliot jerked them off together, frantic and animalistic, grunting and groaning and biting down on his lower lip, then leaning in to kiss Quentin, hungry and wild and moaning with abandon. 

The pleasure built, pooling inside of him, gathering force from his exhausted body as Eliot ran his hand over their cocks and then caught just Quentin’s, leaning back and putting his effort into making Quentin come. Pleasure built and blossomed quickly, gathering force in the cradle of his hips and building up, tense and tight, in his thighs and behind his balls, in the tingling center of his abdomen. His orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut, his balls tightening and releasing, warmth spilling over him as Eliot stroked him through it, moaning himself as Quentin’s hips jerked, hungrily watching as hot stripes spilled over Quentin’s belly. “That’s good, baby. Let it go. You’re so pretty like this—you have no idea. No idea.” 

“Eliot,” he whimpered. “Oh—El.” 

Quentin was blinking and blinking, catching his breath and still watching with wonder as Eliot stroked his beautiful cock, making lewd sounds and biting his lip as he took Quentin in, eyes never leaving his body, his hand moving faster over his cock, making slick-wet sounds as he drew closer to his own edge. He let out a choked sob as he fucked into his fist, his face and chest flushing pink. He cried out, loud and long, nearly collapsing forward as he came over Quentin’s cock and stomach, covering him with filthy-slippery heat. He pressed back down over Quentin, their bodies both slick with come, kissing and licking at Quentin’s mouth and pulling him into a crushing embrace, every inch of him covering Quentin. 

“Oh my God, Q,” he whispered between kisses. It should have been off-putting—the sticky slickness between them—but it wasn’t remotely. They kissed for a while longer, tongues heated, mouths sliding together. “We’ll get cleaned up,” Eliot said. “And then maybe sleep?”

“Mm,” Quentin hummed, nodding. He knew if he tried to respond, it would just be a jumble of fucking nonsense.

Eliot, being the slightly more conscious participant, cast a series of cleaning charms that left them warm and dry. He fell on top of Quentin again, kissing and sucking at his lips. He kept talking to Quentin, soft and soothing, telling him how good he was, how sweet and pretty, how Eliot had wanted him, the things he wanted to do to make Quentin feel so, so good. Quentin was lost in it. 

Quentin could relish it for right now. And in the morning. And a bunch of times this week while jerking off about it. It was good. This was good, even if Eliot needed to keep things casual. Quentin could do casual. He could do calm and collected and adult. Fucking was just fucking. They could do it and still be friends, and when Eliot was done, he could just go back to being normal, sexless Quentin. And it wouldn’t hurt anything—would it? He chased the thoughts around in his head as Eliot kissed him, but eventually it all faded away, and the only thing left was Eliot, the touch and taste and smell of him, holding Quentin tight.

Eliot turned the light off with a whip-crack of magic, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.


	4. All Dressed in My Sunday Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is an idiot. MILD angst, the mildest. Seriously, he's on his way to getting his shit together, but he's Eliot. So. You know.
> 
> Also, there's smut. I really went with it. Because quarantine I guess. Or just because. You decide.

“You need to apologize to Quentin, Bambi.” She had barely stepped into his room that evening when he fixed her with a glare he’d been practicing for the past fifteen minutes. (It was difficult to glare at Bambi. She was perfect in just about every way.)

“I just talked to Quentin. I told him I was _not_ planning on apologizing for making his life infinitely better. He seemed fine. Freshly fucked and dazed, but fine.” Eliot thought that Margo probably didn’t notice whether or not Quentin was actually fine. He’d touch base with Q later.

“You can’t force your will on everyone, Margo. Especially not socially awkward nerds. He was mortified thinking of having to kiss me in front of a room full of people.”

“Since when are you his keeper? Does whipping your dick out in front of someone automatically put you in charge of their feelings?” 

“Jesus, Margo. You really need—”

“I don’t need to do anything, El.” She walked closer so she was just a few inches from his face, smelling of coconut oil and a perfume that reminded him a little of grapefruit. She was stunning. He had to remember to be _angry_. 

“Bambi. The boy thought you were trying to humiliate him.” 

“I informed him that I was not. So. He’s fine.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t you think I knew spin the bottle would spook Q? I knew he would run upstairs, and the two of you would have to fucking _talk_? And fuck. And now you’re dating, right? You’re fucking welcome, Eliot.”

Oh. He remembered yelling at Margo the night before, telling her she’d overstepped. And then she’d smirked at Eliot and told him he needed to run the fuck upstairs because his boy was probably moping in the hallway, and he needed someone to dick him out of his bad mood. 

“Oh,” he said. 

“Yeah. So. Details. When are you taking him out for a horse drawn carriage ride? I know that’s in your secret soul, El. You got tickets yet?”

“Not exactly.” Eliot looked up at her, and her eyes went wide. 

“Fucking explain yourself, asshole. Please tell me you’re just shit at understanding metaphors.”

“We’ve agreed to keep things casual,” Eliot said, trying to keep his tone, well, casual. “Friends with benefits. We enjoy each other. I get all the benefits. None of the drama.”

Margo rolled her eyes dramatically. “What the fuck, Eliot? That’s what Quentin wants?”

“He suggested it,” he said mildly. 

She eyed him suspiciously. Which, fine. It was pretty suspicious. She knew Quentin. He knew Quentin. Being casual was something Quentin was _okay_ with, and it was a way to… keep Quentin. Without fucking up. Eliot didn’t do—hadn’t done—relationships. Staying casual was something familiar. Plus, Quentin had _said it_. Margo raised her hands in mock surrender. “Jesus. That is just fucking great.” 

“It is great, Bambi,” Eliot said, turned away now, looking through his drawers absently. He needed to organize his ties. 

Margo tapped her foot impatiently. “I won’t tell you how to live your life—”

“That’s certainly untrue.”

“—but this seems like a bit of a disaster.”

“That sounds awfully close to telling me how to live my life, Bambi,” he said, a bit sharp. Maybe pricklier than he intended. Margo didn’t have any room to talk to him about relationships because she didn’t _do relationships_ , either. “This is actually me _avoiding_ disaster, Bambi.”

“Quentin is different than some boy whose name you don’t remember.” 

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. Since you’ve known me, have I ever fucked someone more than four times? I intend to fuck Quentin and keep fucking him.”

“I don’t keep track of who you’re fucking and how many times you’ve fucked them.” 

“You do. Don’t lie.”

Margo shrugged. “Only because you’re a pathological over-sharer. Either way, Quentin isn’t a rando, jolly first year you fuck through the mattress and send along his merry way. You slept _in his bed_ last night.”

“I did fulfill my fantasy of making him—”

“God, Eliot.” She pinched her fingers at the top of her nose.

“—come all over his Fillory sheets.”

“That’s definitely hot, I gotta admit,” she said. 

“You have no idea.”

Margo groaned. “Stop distracting me. Look, I’m already fucking exhausted listening to your emotional gymnastics. I didn’t spend my sweet time supporting you and shit just to see you fuck this all up.”

“Your support means the world to me, darling.” He plucked out his yellow paisley tie and re-rolled it, placing it neatly next to his purple ‘occasion’ tie. It was important to maintain a certain degree of neatness when it came to accessories. It gave Eliot a sense of tidiness, a sense of control. Things stayed in their categories, folded uniformly, everything in its place. 

Margo sat down on his bed, sighing heavily, watching him as he went through his drawers.

“You know, you just can’t treat Coldwater like your boyfriend if you’re ‘keeping it casual.’”

“Who said I was going to do that?”

“Oh,” Margo said. “I don’t know. Let me see. What suggests that you want him to be your—”

“Stop it.”

“—boyfriend? Your body language. The way you talk about him. The fact that you haven’t fucked anyone else since you met him. The fact that you’ve _talked to me_ about your whole date night fantasy. Oh, and you were too nervous to go after him on your own— _you_ , nervous.” She laughed. “Because you didn’t want to be rejected.”

Eliot made a noncommittal noise. She wasn’t entirely wrong. And if Quentin had said he wanted to be… official with Eliot in some capacity, he would have accepted that. As it stood, Quentin had given him a less complicated option. An option that might stick for a while. He hadn’t really had super detailed _plans_ about what he wanted with Quentin. So, this made sense, didn’t it? Sure, he’d mentioned a couple of more or less romantic things after Margo confronted him about his… interest in Quentin. That didn’t mean that was the only way to do things. This was easier. It was simpler. And it was Quentin who brought it up. It was _Quentin_.

Eliot had been told so many times that he deserved nothing. Now, even in the big wide world away from Indiana, that idea still sat deep at the core of who he was. It was so ingrained that he rarely even noticed it—and he never fought against it. In his youth, fighting against that belief put him in danger. He followed that same paradigm, still, out of instinct. It wasn’t that he explicitly thought he wasn’t good enough to have the things he wanted; it was just a thing that was in him, buried beneath all the artifice, an unfortunate guiding force that led him through the world. Whatever fell into his lap was what he had. He accepted his lot in life, with great aplomb, he might add. It wasn’t so depressing as it sounded—not really. This tactic had carried him to Brakebills. It had given him Margo. And it landed Quentin right in his lap. He held on tight when he had something he wanted, but he never asked for more.

“El, you’re my best friend. But I can’t do this _for you_.”

“Bambi, I’m not asking you to do anything. You did help me last night… albeit in a very invasive way. On brand for you,” he said, giving her an indulgent smile. She looked… far from indulgent herself. Maybe the actual opposite of indulgent. “I don’t need anything else. Quentin and I are adults—”

“No. You’re not. I leave you alone for one second, and you manage to turn your big, gooey crush on Quentin into a fuck buddy situation, and it makes zero goddamn sense—”

“Not for you to judge, darling. Besides, isn’t this what we do?”

“Historically,” Margo said. “But, _this_ is different. I know it. You know it. _Quentin_ definitely knows it. And you’re going to fuck up a good thing if you don’t grow a goddamn ovary and egg the fuck up.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, darling.” Eliot picked up his orange tie with the floral print. He’d gotten it in Ibiza, and it was decadently gorgeous. It paired well with his shirt that had the light blue embroidery. He wondered idly if Q would like it. He rolled the tie back up and placed it in its proper spot, nestled among all the others.

“I—ugh—care about your happiness.” Margo waved her hand like she was brushing away the unwelcome sentiment. 

“I’m quite happy, thank you.” Eliot smiled, maybe a little pinched. But Margo was assaulting him with emotional shenanigans, and now all of Eliot’s thoughts were oscillating wildly, swept away and circling in a thousand different directions. He took a breath in and let it out, shoving all the scattered, floating things into a small corner of his mind, locking them away, where they belonged. “Now, would you like to watch ‘Dead to Me’ while I paint your toenails? It’s Sunday. This unfortunate discussion should not intrude on our plans.”

Margo groaned, frustrated. “God, you’re such a dick.” A pause. “Yes.”

“Go get your nail polish.”

***

That morning, he’d wanted so badly to push for what he wanted. He just—he couldn’t. And he couldn’t tell Margo _why_ he hadn’t. Diving into his thoughts that way felt… dangerous. Even with his perfect Bambi.

After he guided Quentin in his first ever sloppy, yet gratifyingly enthusiastic, blow job, they lay together for a long time just kissing, and it felt like this was the beginning of something _real_ , a thing that Eliot _could_ keep. Despite the dark, sick thing rattling around inside of him, he thought—no, he _knew_ —that Quentin was the type to want something more. Something had tugged at him when he thought about that, and he didn’t know if it was good or bad. 

Eliot had held him close, thinking about how he’d like to take Quentin out in the city, get dinner, maybe go to this magicians’ bar he knew, or just wander around Central Park on a Sunday sometime. It was a little touristy, but he kind of loved Central Park. He was tangled up with Q, his ankle wrapped around the back of his leg, lips pressed to his forehead. He smelled sweet, like clean sweat and drugstore shampoo, and Eliot had snuggled in closer and pulled him tight. And then, Quentin—

“Is it better to keep things. Um. Casual?” He had been blushing crimson-red, pushing the words out like they were painful to say.

Eliot had been quiet because Eliot was a fucking coward. The obvious question was sitting at the tip of his tongue. _“What do you want, Quentin?”_ But the words wouldn’t come. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to know the answer, either way. And maybe it had been that Eliot already knew his own answer, and he didn’t know if he could handle it if Q’s answer was different. He thought, maybe, they both wanted something _more_ , something greater than fooling around in their rooms after class. But that question had sowed a seed of uncertainty, and it fed the dark, hungry thing clattering around inside of Eliot, making it loud and angry, shattering all the hopeful bits and turning them to dust.

If he were brave, he would have told Quentin, ‘No, it’s not better. I want more than that. I don’t know exactly what. Or how. Or what that means. I’ve never done _this_ before. But I think we should try and figure it out. And maybe we should go on a date.’

Quentin, being Quentin, would probably be relieved. He’d be deliciously flattered and flustered and relentlessly happy. And in the next week, he’d likely want to _define terms_ , and then Eliot would be _someone_ to him. They’d be a _thing_ , an item, with a formal relationship title. He’d want Eliot to meet his _dad_. He’d be telling Julia about them and navigating her _very obvious disdain_ for Eliot. And Eliot would be set down a path to fuck it all up irrevocably. That’s always what had happened when Eliot wanted more than the universe offered, when his desires exceeded his station in life. When his soul wanted messy, hopeful things.

Instead of asking Quentin what he wanted, he had held him and soothed his hair. And then he’d shifted and pulled away. “Do you not want to do this again?” He had been trying for Eliot Waugh nonchalance, but he could tell his voice sounded anxious and pinched.

“No. Uh. I do. Like. I mean, I don’t want to stop. I want to do whatever you want, El.” Quentin’s eyes had been so big and deep and pleading that he’d felt his heart might shatter. And Eliot, with his broken soul, had known then that he couldn’t do Central Park and dinner dates with Quentin. He didn’t want to be the cause of disappointment in those beautiful eyes, didn’t want him to come to harm in Eliot’s hands. How could he ever deserve someone so honest and kind? Eliot knew he needed to make the choice that would cost him the least in the long run. 

“Then, that’s good. Casual.” He could do that. He knew casual so very well. He could have Quentin, and he would never have to fail at all the things he didn’t know how to do. 

If Quentin had been upset, he didn’t show it. Eliot kept him in his bed until mid-afternoon that day and didn’t let him have a chance to overthink it.  
***

When Eliot went downstairs around ten that evening, he wondered idly where Quentin was. He didn’t want Quentin to feel that all Eliot wanted was sex. Eliot guessed that was sort of a complication of this type of thing, but one easily remedied with a smoothing over talk. Maybe tomorrow. His body still ached for Quentin, wanted to touch and taste and adore Quentin. He’d gotten a sampling, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Tonight, he could leave it be. He could just go downstairs, grab a sparkling water, and put himself to bed. Best not to go overboard.

When he made it to the kitchen, there was Quentin, lurking behind the corner, clutching one of the orange plastic cups from the Cottage’s eclectic repository of dish ware. He looked up at Eliot, turning a sweet shade of pink and giving Eliot a dimpled little smile. 

“I was just. Getting some water.” Quentin gestured with his cup, like he was making sure Eliot could see it. God, he was too much. Eliot wanted to wrap him in blankets and keep him in his bed forever. A complicated feeling, mitigated by their _very good decision_ to be casual.

“Oh. I was. Me too,” Eliot said. Okay, now he sounded like Quentin. He wanted to reach out and touch Quentin, bury his face in his hair, do ludicrously filthy things that would make him moan like he had last night—and again this morning. “Do you want to—”

“Yeah.” The pink on Quentin’s cheeks deepened. Fucking charming. 

“I didn’t even ask you anything yet.” Eliot reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind Quentin’s ear. Quentin shivered in delight.

“Whatever it is, probably yeah. If you’re asking,” Quentin said. His eyes were on Eliot’s, dark and glittering. It was Sunday night, and they had classes the next day, and he’d never—not even accidentally—let a boy sleep in his bed with school on the horizon the next day. It wasn’t that he took waking up for class all that seriously. It just generally gave the wrong idea, the whole sleeping in the bed thing. This was… new territory. He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t be asking anything. Quentin would wise up—and quickly, probably.

But Quentin was putting the orange cup on the counter and leaning forward, pulling Eliot down by his collar and kissing him, open, wet, and eager, his tongue pushing against Eliot’s teeth, bullying him into opening his mouth, letting him in. His hand went to Quentin’s neck, fingers trailing over that exquisite soft skin, catching the back of his skull in his fingers and tipping him so that he could move his lips over the expanse of Quentin’s neck, tongue flicking out over his Adam’s apple. They shouldn’t have be doing this in the kitchen, but. But Quentin’s skin tasted clean and vaguely salty, and he smelled like Dove body soap and lavender fabric softener, and Eliot wanted to crawl inside that scent and wrap it around him, take refuge in this place where he was so, so wanted. Eliot pulled Quentin tight into him, all of his body pressing against all of Eliot’s, and Eliot’s hands were already snaking beneath Quentin’s worn gray t-shirt, fingernails scratching through the soft fur on his belly.

“Yeah, then,” Eliot started. “I think—we should—bedroom.”

“Mm, yeah, I—” Quentin laughed, a little goofy, but he was still kissing Eliot, so it was good. The laugh was really, really good. He liked the sound of it so much it sent a thrill of electricity through all the layers of Eliot. He kept kissing Quentin, chasing that feeling, licking into his mouth, tugging at his hair and pushing him into the counter, because he _really couldn’t_ stop. 

“I want you, need you,” Eliot murmured, almost entirely unaware of what was coming out of his mouth until the words were already out there. No matter. Neither of them were in their right minds today, were they? He pulled Quentin’s hair back, hard, savoring the hot, ragged sound that came from his throat as Eliot kissed along the line of his jaw. 

_Maybe, maybe this is more complicated than it sounded when I explained it to Margo._ He didn’t have time to expand upon the thought because Quentin had started unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping his hands beneath the fabric, running his fingers over Eliot’s neck. 

“This right here,” Quentin said, tracing a line over his collarbone. “This is fucking… exquisite. Fuck. _God_.” He sounded like he was _high_. Talking about Eliot’s _bone structure_. He pressed his mouth against Eliot’s neck, and Eliot let out a high-pitched whine that would have embarrassed him, but he was so hot for Q’s mouth. Needed this. 

Eliot couldn’t catch his breath or make a space inside his head to process it. And there was no way—none—that he could possibly stop now, regardless of the fact that Quentin made him feel like… like a drawer full of loose, wrinkled ties, hopelessly mussed and likely ruined.

And now, shy, innocent Quentin, who had nearly broken down the night before because he’d thought that Eliot might not _like him _, was dragging him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, nearly bumping into a very confused Todd. Quentin shoved Eliot _against the wall_ on the landing and was methodically feeling him up, untucking his shirt, slipping his fingers beneath his waistband. __

__“We’re not—” Eliot started. We’re not what? What was he going to say?_ _

__“Um,” Quentin said, but he didn’t expand on that thought. Instead, he kissed Eliot again and pressed himself between Eliot’s thighs, and oh God, he was already hard._ _

__“We’re not in my room yet,” Eliot said in a rush. “Maybe you shouldn’t get me naked right here, right now?”_ _

__“Says who,” Quentin said, nibbling Eliot’s earlobe. He pressed his lips just above the hollow of Eliot’s neck, sucking at the skin there, tongue flicking out. It was likely he’d leave a mark. The thought sent a shiver down Eliot’s spine, the idea of walking around with the mark of Quentin’s mouth right there for everyone to see. Oh _God_ ; this feeling, the depth of it, he’d forgotten even since that morning. He was fooling himself if he thought that he could sustain this because he was burning up from the inside out. _ _

__“Upstairs,” Eliot said, tugging Quentin with him and pushing him into his room, slamming his door shut behind him with telekinesis and drawing up a silencing ward with a flick of his wrist._ _

__Quentin watched him, eyes dark, shuddering, his hands immediately drawn back to Eliot’s chest, pushing his shirt off. “It’s hot as fuck when you use magic.”_ _

__Eliot moaned, deliriously stripping Quentin’s shirt off over his head and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans with a quick spell. “You like that,” Eliot whispered._ _

__“Mm hm,” Quentin hummed, shimmying out of his jeans, about ten thousand times more confident than he’d been the night before. He was already hard, his pretty, flushed cock arched toward his belly, his hands all over Eliot again, peeling him out of his clothes before Eliot had time to process or second guess or change his mind about the fact that it was _late_ , and he wanted Q to stay, and he certainly wasn’t kicking him out now. _ _

__“Bed,” Eliot said, pointing. “Lie down.” He was about three quarters of the way undressed, hopping out of his pants and shuffling out of his socks, the last vestiges of propriety falling to the floor as he threw off his undershirt and climbed over Quentin, pressing his body exactly where he wanted, right on top of Quentin, their cocks pressed together, hot and velvet-soft._ _

__Eliot wondered—he knew Quentin wasn’t entirely new to _liking_ boys, but he was new to the whole actual exploration piece. And Eliot was… not new to that. At all. Not that anyone is ever an equal match with the people they end up fucking, but it paid to be cautious. Eliot had… well, a few things in mind. He just needed to get his shit together and actually speak to Quentin. That was proving difficult since Quentin’s mouth hadn’t left his skin for more than five seconds since he closed the door, and now his hand was on Eliot’s cock, and Quentin was groaning, loud and debauched, just from touching him. _ _

__“You feel so good,” Quentin said, sighing and pressing his lips to Eliot’s cheek, his mouth, his shoulder, as he simply held Eliot’s cock in his fist, gripping tight but not moving. “I just—can’t even—this feels _so good_.”_ _

__“You have such a way with words.” But truly, Eliot didn’t ever think he’d heard anything better, with Quentin squirming beneath him, bodies sweat-slick, jolts flying through him with each tiny movement of Quentin’s fingers against his hot-hard dick, lust rumbling like thunder just beneath his skin. He hitched forward, unable to stop himself, rubbing against Quentin’s cock, making his fingers tighten. He groaned, breath flickering against Quentin’s cheek._ _

__Quentin bit his lip and looked into Eliot’s eyes, kissing him, rubbing his nose against Eliot’s, his free hand tangling in Eliot’s hair. “What do you want, uh. To do?”_ _

__“Mm, anything. Just lying on top of you forever.” God, Eliot didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. This was _not_ how he was with the steady stream of boys he’d taken to bed since he arrived at Brakebills. Quentin was different; he knew that. But he couldn’t be _that different_ , could he? Everything in Eliot’s body, how it felt the depth of his need, how it wanted, wanted, wanted Quentin, ravenously, without end—everything was telling him yes, yes, he could be._ _

__“I’m not, like, opposed to that,” Quentin said between kisses, his hand moving over Eliot’s cock appreciatively, with no real purpose other than to feel it. Eliot shivered._ _

__“But I’d like to—mmm—” Eliot kept brushing his lips against Quentin’s and God, it was just so good, like little sparks were forming where their skin touched, each kiss spinning down deep inside of him and taking residence in all of those hollow places that had told him to want so little for so long. And what is it that he’d like to do? _Fuck._ Everything. He wanted Quentin to come down his throat. He wanted to watch him jerk off and tell him every fantasy he’d had about Eliot. Not that Eliot was conceited but… well, he was a little conceited. He wanted to _know_. God, but he wanted to fuck Quentin. Endlessly. Every day. Memorize all of his soft, shocked little noises as he slid inside of him. He wanted Quentin to fuck him, feel the spine-melting, tingling fullness, watch his face as he snapped his hips and came inside of him. Honestly, it was a lot to say all at once. He didn’t want the poor boy’s brain to short circuit._ _

__“I want to—” He pressed his lips close to Quentin’s ear. “I want to use my fingers on you. And my tongue. Taste you. Make you scream my name. Does that sound like something you’d want?”_ _

__Quentin let out a sound that was maybe trying to be a word but didn’t quite make it. He was panting, still gripping Eliot’s cock._ _

__“Enthusiastic consent, Q. I’m not going to be shy telling you what I want, okay?”_ _

__“Uh.”_ _

__“And I’d like you to learn to tell me what you want. If this is going to be a regular thing.” Eliot kissed him again because he couldn’t resist those pink, parted lips, the taste of peppermint toothpaste, soft skin and scratchy stubble._ _

__“That’s uh. I’d like that.”_ _

__“You’d like what?” Eliot couldn’t help smiling. He felt warm and liquid in Quentin’s arms. He kissed Quentin’s red cheeks._ _

__“I’d like your fingers. Inside of me. And your tongue. Like you said. I’d like that a lot.” Quentin bit down on his lip, and Eliot kissed him there, lips brushing against his teeth. “And um. You know. A regular thing. Whenever. Frequently. You know.”_ _

__He bit at Quentin’s shoulder, which made Quentin suck in a quick breath and go rigid beneath him. “Good boy,” Eliot said. “I’m just going to make you feel good, baby. Tell me if anything makes you feel uncomfortable. Just tell me to stop.”_ _

__Quentin looked at him with those devastating brown eyes, so open and trusting, his lips pink and wet, cheeks flushed. “Okay. Yeah. That’ll be—yeah.” He kissed Eliot and put a hand, light and hesitant to the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly through his curls._ _

__And Eliot slowly, slowly, worked his way down Quentin’s body, mouth traveling over his broad shoulders and down to one pink nipple and the other, licking over them and feeling their hardness. Quentin moaned and sighed, unabashed, hard cock pressing against Eliot’s torso, his body jumping as Eliot kissed and licked down beneath his pecs and down the furred line of his abdomen towards his nice, meaty cock. Eliot moved his hands beneath Quentin’s hips, sinking down lower and taking Quentin’s cock into his mouth, all the way to the hilt, looking up to see Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, an expression of rapture taking over his face. He licked up to the head of Quentin’s lovely cock, swirling his tongue over it once._ _

__“I’m gonna move your knees up, okay baby?”_ _

__“Uh huh,” Quentin managed._ _

__Eliot spread Quentin’s legs, pushing them up on the bed and moving one of his pillows beneath Quentin’s hips. “This’ll feel a little weird. It’s a spell. Okay?”_ _

__Quentin’s propped himself up, eyes big because of course he wanted to _see it_ , even with his legs splayed open on Eliot’s bed. Quentin was a fucking gift. “What’s it—uh— _oh_ —”_ _

__Eliot lifted his hands into a quick cleaning tut, and Quentin took in a breath. Quentin’s breath hitched, and his legs twitched just a little. “Just a cleaning spell. I’ll add a protection enchantment when I’m fucking you. Which I will be. Just not tonight.”_ _

__“Oh—I—oh my God—you can’t just say things like that—”_ _

__“I can and I did.” He flicked his eyes up to Quentin, who was deliciously bright pink from chest to cheeks, hair falling over his face, legs spread wide and cock hard and curved toward his belly. “And now I’m doing this.”_ _

__Eliot slid his hands beneath Quentin’s ass cheeks before he could start rambling about sex spells. He pressed his thumbs close to his hole and laved his tongue across the puckered surface, licking in and around the tight rim, groaning. The sound Quentin made was ridiculously, insanely beautiful—a low, breathless keening as Eliot licked at him, circling his hole, working his lips and tongue over and over and pressing just a little deeper inside. Eliot’s pulse was racing, cock hard and dripping as he licked and kissed and lavished this boy—his beautiful boy—with attention, everything that he deserved. That’s a thing that Eliot _could_ do, without question, no reservations or hesitation. Eliot was vaguely aware that Quentin was saying his name, over and over, as he licked inside of him, muscling a little deeper with each movement of his tongue. It drove Eliot forward, made his entire body light up from the inside, the visceral, physical knowledge of what Quentin felt, that he wanted it and loved it because it was _Eliot_. And Eliot got to have this—all the lovely, frantic, enraptured sounds falling from Quentin’s lips, the dark, musky taste of him, the feeling of him opening and opening. Quentin was bucking against his face gently like he couldn’t help moving; Eliot heard Quentin’s hands tangling in the covers, the sheets pulling taut beneath Eliot’s fingers as he kissed the soft, sensitive rim, pressing his thumbs in and spreading him open wider, wider so that Eliot can taste him, deeper and darker, opening, opening, opening for him. _ _

__“Oh—oh—fuck— _Eliot_ —” God, did his name sound beautiful when Quentin said it, like he was saying something _beautiful_ , something spiritual, precious. Eliot thought absently as he licked him open, tongue moving around and into the hot, tight clench of him. Quentin was shuddering now, his muscles tensing and releasing as he moaned, toes curling and clutching at the covers. _ _

__He pressed a long kiss, tongue darting out, tasting and teasing, as he raised his left hand in a rapid tut, summoning lube to coat his fingers. “I’m gonna put my fingers inside, baby,” he says, muffled, kissing at Quentin’s hole again, moving his tongue up and over his balls, back down over his perineum as he pushed just the pad of his fingers against his entrance._ _

__“Oh— _Christ_ —your _hands_ —” Quentin grunted, whole body shivering, pressing down against Eliot’s fingers._ _

__“Tell me you want it,” Eliot said, circling his fingers over the slick, wet, clutching heat of Quentin’s hole._ _

__“Jesus—God, Eliot, yes I want it, your fingers—inside me, now, now,” Quentin said in a rush, impudent, tetchy. “C’mon, c’mon, please—”_ _

__Quentin’s voice was ragged and wanting, hips arching up from the bed as Eliot pressed against his rim, slipping his finger in just a bit, not quite to the first knuckle, letting it rest where it was a moment, twisting it to appreciate the firm clench of Quentin’s body. He moaned and kissed around his finger, thinking of the first time he would bury his cock inside of his warm, tight, pliant body, and he wanted it, wanted it so much more than—maybe— _any_ boy who’d been in his bed. That was—well, it was all the words that Eliot had already thought to himself: inconvenient, dangerous, too much, too fast. But he slipped his finger in further, past the first knuckle and then all the way inside, crooking it just so, to find the spot and circle it, press at it, pulling and pushing his finger and narrowing down his thoughts so they were only focused on that hand, on the tip of his tongue where he licked around his fingers, slipping a second one inside as he started to stretch and give, moaning and arching his body, a live wire charged with frenetic desire._ _

__“Oh my—God—I need to—oh God—”_ _

__Eliot lay his head against Quentin’s thigh, watching Quentin’s face and his lithe, muscular body as Eliot moved his fingers in and out, twisting in that familiar pattern, from his muscle memory of all the other boys who’d been right here before. He scissored and stretched his fingers, brushing over Quentin’s prostate with every other stroke. “Go on and touch yourself, baby. I wanna see it.”_ _

__Quentin whimpered and brought his hand to his cock, gripping and stroking, moaning as Eliot fucked into him with his fingers. He was louder now, crying out, bucking into his fist, eyes closed and head thrown back. Eliot sort of wished he had taken down his silencing wards so everyone would know just what how much Quentin _wanted this_. _ _

__He kept his head against Quentin’s thigh as he stroked inside the soft, clenching heat of him, admiring Quentin’s cock, the brush of his hand, the way his abdominal muscles tensed and released as he stroked himself, biting his lower lip and groaning wantonly as Eliot fucked into him with his fingers. He drew his hand back and considered for a moment before pushing a third finger inside, smiling at the desperate, throaty noise Quentin made, how he bore down against Eliot’s fingers, almost sobbing. He pressed the tips of his fingers, petting at that tender-sensitive place inside and watching Quentin’s face; he looked almost pained, beautifully so._ _

__“Oh—El, I’m gonna—” Before he could force out the rest of the words, he was crying out and pushing down against Eliot’s hand and coming over his stomach, spilling out over his hand and moaning, low and long._ _

__Eliot slipped his fingers free, watching as Quentin’s body shivered, and he moved up the bed to take him in his arms. Quentin’s lips were on his, tongue meeting Eliot’s. Q whined into his mouth—maybe because he tasted himself on Eliot’s lips, he realized, and oh _fuck_ was that hot. He’d expected Quentin to be fun, but maybe not this much fun. And _God_ , Eliot was well and truly fucked, wasn’t he? He was just too fucking hard and fucking turned on to think about what it meant that he couldn’t even think properly around Quentin, to the point that he’d wrangled him into his room and had no plans of letting him go until he absolutely had to let him go to class the next day. _ _

__“You felt so good inside, baby,” Eliot said (and oh _fuck,_ he wasn’t going to shut up, was he?). “So hot and tight and you opened up for me, and you tensed all up when you were coming, and you looked so, so pretty.” He pushed his nose into Quentin’s cheek and bit down on his lip, trying not to come up with any more sappy bullshit. But it just wanted to come out. Shit._ _

__But Quentin snuggled in close to him and made an appreciative noise. “You made me feel so good. I didn’t even know—” Quentin laughed and buried his face in Eliot’s neck. He felt like he might burst into tiny pieces and float away. “—Didn’t even know I could feel like that.”_ _

__Well. He _had_ wanted to ruin Quentin for anyone else. So. Mission accomplished? _Goddammit._ _ _

__Quentin was boneless in his arms—how he’d always wanted Quentin from the first moment he saw him—and his breath was hot against Eliot’s cheek. He moved his mouth behind Eliot’s ear, making tempting little noises, his lips and tongue making their way down the line of Eliot’s neck, Quentin’s tongue and teeth brushing over his collarbone and down toward his nipples. He rubbed his nose and mouth over his nipples, tongue darting out, sucking on one and then the other. “You like this, too?”_ _

__“Yeah. Fuck. I do, baby.” Eliot groaned, a little breathless, heat pooling through him, slow and golden and liquid-hot, sending jolts to his aching cock. He was hard, so hard—and Quentin’s hand— _God_ , his strong hands that fell into casting methodically, with purpose, producing intricate castings with his solid, fine-tuned magic—Quentin’s hand was on his cock, working it over slowly as his mouth traveled over Eliot’s chest, nipping and licking and sending shocks of arousal through him that were so intense he thought he might come too quick if he thought about it too hard. And God, he wanted this to _last.__ _

__“I wanna suck your dick again,” Quentin mumbled, pressing his mouth to Eliot’s flushed, overheated skin. He looked up at Eliot, head against his chest, his big, lovely eyes locked with Eliot’s, one hand still on Eliot’s cock, brushing over it affectionately. “I really liked it when you uh—came in my mouth. The taste—and. I want that again. Can I?”_ _

__Jesus. Christ. What the fuck was Eliot supposed to say to _that_? _ _

__He carded his fingers through Quentin’s hair, letting out a ragged breath as Quentin stroked him. Where had this Quentin been hiding? “Yeah. Fuck. I’d like that a lot.”_ _

__Before he had a chance to say anything else, Quentin was between his legs and taking Eliot’s cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head, sending a bolt of heat down the length of his shaft and into his nebulous core, the growing pit of desire that reached for Quentin, that wanted him and only him. Eliot let out a a low groan and tangled a hand in Q’s hair, pulling him off his cock for a moment. “Okay if I guide you a little?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Quentin said blearily, his eyes hazy and unfocused, lips wet and red. He looked like a goddamn vision cobbled together from every erotic soft-nerd fantasy Eliot had ever had. “Please,” he added, expression so fucking earnest._ _

__“Fuck, baby. Okay. Put your mouth on my cock, just like— _yeah_.” Quentin happily took the head of Eliot’s dick back in his mouth, sucking and licking at it as Eliot held him by his hair, pushing and pulling gently. Eliot kept his eyes on Quentin, taking in the blissed out expression on his face and the little groans he made when Eliot bucked up into his mouth or pushed him down so he could take more of Eliot’s length. He was pink-cheeked, beads of sweat on his forehead, looking almost high as he wrapped one hand around Eliot’s cock and propped himself up with the other, jerking Eliot off as he swallowed his cock, just a little deeper with every movement, wet-molten heat enveloping him. All the tight, brittle things Eliot kept inside of him slowly relaxed and started to unspool when Quentin’s mouth was on him, searing hot and greedy, making his aching cock so, so wet. It was tempting to get rough—Quentin’s mouth had always looked like it needed to be fucked, especially when he was being tetchy (which was frequent). But this was slow and lazy and decadent, and clearly, Q was enjoying giving him this so, so much. Eliot had thought about this so many times, jerking off to the idea of coming down Quentin’s throat. It was just… irresistibly erotic to watch Quentin’s hair fall over his face, to feel the vibration of his vocal cords as he whimpered against Eliot’s cock. _ _

__“That’s so good, baby. Can’t believe this is your first day sucking cock. You were made for it. Your pretty mouth and your sweet tongue—it’s just so fucking good. God, you’re so—oh fuck—” The pressure was building inside of him, and Quentin had started moving his hand and mouth faster, taking him as deep as he could go, so the head of his cock was touching the back of Quentin’s throat, the muscles there moving against him, sending little waves of delight up Eliot’s spine. He was trembling, his body tensing, trying to hold on, just for another moment, to prove he could last—but Quentin looked up at him through dark lashes, mouth wet and slicked over his cock, groaning like Eliot’s cock was a gift from fucking Fillory, taking him deep, deep, deep, as far as he could reasonably go. The build of pressure was quick and intense and took Eliot thoroughly by surprise. He wasn’t—he didn’t get like this, not with anyone. And with Quentin, he’d lost his mind, his capacity for reason or technique or planning. Inconvenient. Dangerous. Too much. Eliot came, tensing up and growling, fist tangled in Quentin’s hair. Quentin pulled off part of the way, letting Eliot’s come drip down over his chin and fucking _licking it off of his cock_. What was his life? How did this sweet, shy, dorky boy have a ravenous beast inside of him?_ _

__Eliot didn’t know, but he couldn’t exactly complain. Through the haze of pulling Quentin up into his arms again, cleaning them off with a spell and kissing him deep and tasting himself on Quentins lips, he vaguely thought that he wasn’t doing himself any favors in the _keeping things casual_ department. If he were wise, he’d kick Quentin out. But no single cell in his being actually wanted that. No—he wanted to fall asleep with Quentin in his arms, breath against Eliot’s skin, their bodies pressed together. That way, Q would be there in the morning, and Eliot could kiss him awake and run his fingers over Quentin’s chest, murmur into his ear and maybe—bring him breakfast because he knew Q was horrible about actually eating food before class._ _

__He could go with that, couldn’t he? It wouldn’t have to mean anything in particular. There were different _ways_ , after all, of being casual. _ _

__Eliot flicked off the desk light with a quick movement of his hand. Quentin was already asleep, his leg tossed over Eliot’s, his mouth pressed against Eliot’s chest. This, this right here, had been what Eliot wanted. It had fallen right into his life, just how he’d imagined._ _

__He was too tired to feel anything apart from _lucky_._ _

__When he woke up and cleared his head, he could develop a plan. Clear delineations. Organized, tidy boundaries that would benefit them both._ _

__And it would certainly be fine. He’d figure things out. He always did._ _

__They would be _just fine_._ _


	5. Hold on Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin puts in a request. 
> 
> Quentin realizes something. 
> 
> Eliot is unaware that he's already Quentin's boyfriend. He's an idiot. 
> 
> Quentin is also an idiot. 
> 
> Also, there's lots of smut.

It was Thursday morning on the twentieth day of whatever month it was at Brakebills. October, maybe. The leaves were starting to change, so that seemed about right. It was also the twentieth day that Quentin had woken up next to Eliot, sunlight filtering in through the window, illuminating Eliot’s curls, his dark eyelashes, the strong line of his jaw. He was unfairly handsome. Like it wasn’t realistic for someone to just walking around _looking like this._ Quentin was never going to get over it. Maybe, when he was old and gray, he’d be able to reflect on that time when Eliot Waugh had gone a little crazy wanting Quentin, had made him feel like someone of value for a while, however briefly. He propped himself up on an elbow so he could look down at Eliot’s sleeping form, memorize all of his little details. 

Their legs were tangled together, and Quentin was still naked (and Eliot always slept naked because of course he did). Every bit of Eliot was elegant. His arm was draped across Quentin’s hip, long fingers resting there. He felt so _safe_ here with Eliot when his world had felt so unsafe for so long. When El finally wised up and ended things with Quentin, he’d miss this the most—waking up warm in the morning, next to Eliot, at home. Content.

_Is this what casual is?_ It was getting hard to tell. And the deeper in this Quentin got, the worse it would hurt when Eliot ditched him. He tried not to think about it too much. Being Quentin, he wasn’t very successful at getting it out of his head.

He kept trying to figure that out _what that meant_ , figure Eliot out. Eliot was—well, Eliot was a lot of things. Fucking incredible in bed, but that was no big surprise. Quentin had kind of figured. It was a recurring thread in all of Quentin’s many Eliot-centered fantasies. He was also very _well-endowed_ , which was a thing that Quentin didn’t know he’d be into as much as he was. And he was a _lot_ into it—Quentin didn’t know whether he had a low-key big-dick thing or if it was just that the big dick in question was attached to Eliot. He had tried to parse the subtleties of his dick interest with no success; he concluded he was into Eliot’s big dick just because it was _fucking amazing_. He wasn’t just incredible in bed and blessed in terms of dick size. Eliot was also kind and generous, and he seemed to really enjoy taking care of Quentin—making him breakfast, altering his clothes to fit better with tailoring spells, helping him with his homework, getting him to condition his hair, making him special drinks and fucking smoothies so Quentin got his ‘vitamins.’ It was annoying. And cute. And kind of hot. 

It was _a lot._ Eliot was a lot. And while this thing with Eliot was legitimately everything he’d ever wanted, it didn’t feel like that word was right— _casual_. At all. Maybe Quentin was creating a romantic fantasy in his head (it wouldn’t be the first time), but it felt like Eliot was his _boyfriend_ , which was _terrifying_ because Eliot couldn’t possibly feel the same way. But Quentin had been compiling evidence. He hadn’t slept in his bed since that first night. He woke up, more often than not, wrapped around Eliot. This led Quentin to his next conclusion: Eliot, in all likelihood, was not fucking anyone else. Just Quentin. He hadn’t really expected ‘casual’ to go this way, especially not as far as Eliot was concerned. When Quentin had arrived at Brakebills, Eliot always had some boy hanging off of him—less so after Quentin had gotten settled, which was surely a coincidence. As Julia had pointed out, Eliot’s reputation as The Party King preceded him. According to some of the older students, he always had someone different in his bed the first year and a half he spent at Brakebills. Or two someones. Or someone and Margo. 

When Quentin’s cohort arrived, it seemed Eliot had… slowed down. And since he’d started sleeping with Quentin, Eliot hadn’t had anyone else up to his bedroom. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe Eliot just hadn’t met anyone else he really wanted to fuck. Maybe he was doting on Quentin until he got bored. Maybe he called Quentin ‘baby’ when they were fooling around because that was just something he did. Maybe he laid in bed with every person he fucked for hours at a time, just talking and cuddling and kissing. Unlikely. Maybe. He didn’t know. 

The thing was—the thing _was_ —well, there were a couple of things. Quentin had tried to bring it up in a roundabout sort of Quentin way—a few times, actually. He’d said ‘Oh El, I don’t know if you want me sleeping in your room all the time,’ to which Eliot had replied, ‘How else am I supposed to get laid in the mornings?’ Which, you know, fair point. He’d later commented that Eliot must be tired of Quentin getting in his way of meeting other guys. Instead of actually responding, Eliot just kissed Quentin until he was completely senseless and couldn’t put together a coherent sentence. And then, you know, that devolved. The conversation had fallen apart since he couldn’t exactly talk with Eliot’s dick in his mouth. 

And this—this was a good thing, right? Right? Wasn’t it? Even if it wasn’t what he’d imagined when he’d first started daydreaming about Eliot (going out to dinner and having picnics and holding hands walking around the city as well as copious fucking), it was better than anything Quentin had ever had. In some of his morose moments, when Eliot wasn’t around to pick him up and make him see the positive, he ruminated on the inevitable fallout, the depression spiral Quentin was sure to find himself in when Eliot moved on. There was absolutely no one else that Quentin wanted to fuck—not in an active way, anyway—and he was pretty certain that Eliot had ruined him for anyone else. And they hadn’t even _actually_ fucked yet. What they did together—like, wow, a really fucking wide variety of ways to get off—was definitely sex, like, broadly. But. You know. It was like, _weird_ , Quentin thought, that they hadn’t _fucked_ properly, like either of the ways they could actually fuck. Of course, Eliot said it wasn’t weird _at all_.

The whole _fucking_ thing was a point of contention. It had been three weeks, and Eliot still wouldn’t fuck him, wouldn’t go there, said he wanted to _wait_. For _what_ , exactly? Like seriously, what the actual fuck? It was infuriating. At first, Quentin, being Quentin, had decided it was because Eliot didn’t want things to continue between the two of them. But that seemed like faulty logic since Quentin either always a) fell asleep in Eliot’s room because he was already there and Eliot never kicked him out or b) Eliot would find him and drag him to his bedroom and proceed to suck his dick so thoroughly that Quentin couldn’t think or move for at least ten minutes afterwards. And to Quentin’s question, ‘Do you, uh, want to continue doing this?,’ he just received a confused expression and an ‘of course,’ like it was at all intuitive for someone as hot as Eliot to get even a shred of joy from getting Quentin off. It wasn’t intuitive at fucking all. Quentin still didn’t believe his luck. So he wasn’t going to push Eliot away by bringing up the _boyfriend_ thing that was ever present in the back of his intensely percolating mind. But. As for the fucking thing… if they didn’t get to fuck before El dumped him (Could you dump a fuck buddy? Probably yes, if it was Quentin), Quentin might lose his actual mind. And he was an expert at losing his mind, so he should know. 

He was about to reach over and touch one of those imperfectly perfect curls when Eliot blinked and looked up at him sleepily, yawning and stretching his long body so that he pushed into Quentin. “Hey,” he said, hand gripping Quentin’s side, sliding down to hold the divot of his hip. 

“Um. Hi.” Quentin brushed his fingers through Eliot’s hair, just as he wanted, thinking about how the texture was different from his—courser, thicker, with a wild bounce to it. He liked it so, so much; he wanted to bury his face in it, every day, all the time. God, he was hopelessly gone on Eliot. 

“I never let other boys do that.” Eliot was looking up at him, eyes like smoky amber, fluttering his long lashes, lips parted. 

“Do what?” The length of Eliot’s body was pressed to his, one hand gliding over his back and holding his neck. What was he doing that other boys didn’t get to do? This wasn’t good for his whole confused, hamster-wheeling mind. None of this was. But what was he going to do? Not wake up in Eliot’s bed? Fuck that.

“I generally don’t like people to touch my hair. It gets mussed too easily.” Eliot brushed his thumb over the nape of Quentin’s neck, and Quentin swallowed hard. Yeah, this wasn’t great for the whole _keep it casual_ thing. 

“Oh—I can—I can stop.” Quentin’s hand froze.

“Don’t stop. I’ll fix it later. Go on, baby. Mess it up. Make me feel good.” Eliot leaned in and brushed his lips against Quentin’s, moaning into his mouth as he tangled his fingers in Eliot’s hair. “Yeah, like that. Feels fucking good.”

Quentin grinned and pressed the tips of his fingers to Eliot’s scalp, caressing, pulling just a bit. And Eliot—Eliot was making the loveliest sounds and pressing his head against Quentin’s shoulder, lips brushing, soft, against Quentin’s skin. And _Jesus Christ_ , he’d intended to talk to Eliot, actually talk to him. About the things. The—like—important things he’d been thinking about since he woke up.

“El.” Quentin kept running his fingers through Eliot’s curls because it would be a shame to stop, as he was the only boy on campus with exclusive access to Eliot’s fucking gorgeous hair. But. Step one. “I still want you to fuck me.”

Eliot’s lips stopped moving. “You’ve said.”

“Unless you don’t want to,” Quentin said. He’d inherited his mother’s talent for passive-aggressive barbs. This wasn’t quite _that_ , he thought. But it was close. Fuck it. 

Eliot groaned, partly frustrated, maybe. But something else, too. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Not really. You pinned me against the door and—well, I couldn’t finish my train of thought after. You know.” Eliot had held Quentin against the door and vigorously jerked him off while saying, like, super filthy things in his ear. Quentin had come so hard he nearly passed out. Quentin was beginning to realize that sex was Eliot’s general plan for getting out of conversations he didn’t want to have. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

“Mmm, yeah. I remember now.” Eliot’s hand roamed down to Quentin’s lower back and pulled him in closer, and he could feel Eliot’s dick growing hard against his thigh. He pressed his lips to Quentin’s shoulder and sucked at the skin there.“You look so pretty when I’m holding you against the door. I couldn’t resist.”

This was, like, really not helping. “I guess I think we should, like—talk about why—”

Eliot kissed down Quentin’s shoulder, tongue darting out and tasting him. Quentin groaned, fisting Eliot’s hair as he bit at his chest and licked over one nipple. “God. You’re so flushed whenever I put my mouth on you. How can you expect me to—” Eliot pressed his mouth against Quentin’s other nipple, flicking his tongue over it and biting down gently. He was moving his hips now, just slightly, pushing his flushed, hard cock against Quentin’s. “—concentrate? I can’t.” 

He nudged his nose at Quentin’s armpit, _smelling him_ and kissing the soft skin at the crook between his arm and shoulder. It was—it should be—maybe a a little bit _weird_ , but Quentin’s body lit up from the inside as Eliot kissed and licked at him, his hands smoothing down over his ribs. He’d learned, quickly, that nothing was really ‘weird’ to Eliot, that he should speak up for what he wanted, enjoy all the little things, all the places on his body he’d never really noticed before. That was, like, a great thing to learn. Except. Except. _Except Eliot wouldn’t fuck him._

“El.” A jolt of need went straight to Quentin’s dick as Eliot laved his tongue over one nipple and then the other, biting down slightly on each one. Quentin’s dick was growing stiff, and the back of his neck was prickling, heat blooming through his chest where Eliot licked and sucked at him. Who could blame him? “Eliot. I just don’t understand why you won’t—I mean if you don’t want to—I guess that’s fine—I just, um.” Quentin whimpered because _now_ , Eliot was holding his dick, squeezing at the base. “Eliot, come on—”

“Okay, okay,” Eliot said in a frankly uncooperative tone, like Quentin was reminding him to take the trash out. “If you think I _don’t_ want to fuck you, Quentin, you’re an idiot.” He flicked his eyes up to Quentin. Eliot had the same look he got right before he was about to take Quentin apart and turn him into a quivering puddle. “You feel my cock against you, so hard. You even mention me putting my dick in you—God, it’s unbearably hot. I wanna give you this big dick and fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

“What?” Blood was rushing in Quentin’s ears now, his skin ablaze, prickling all over. Who talked about _their own dick_ like that? Eliot squeezed his cock again, and a shiver ran from the back of his neck to his toes.

“You’re so dense.” Eliot bit his lip, pushing Quentin down on his back, right hand gently pressing down on his neck, his left stroking Quentin in earnest, in rhythmic short bursts, just the way Quentin liked.

Quentin tilted his head back and groaned, long and loud, hips arching into Eliot’s hand. He chased after that sensation, sinking into Eliot’s tight, expert grip, falling into the sensation of those long, clever fingers that knew exactly what he needed. Quentin was whining now, toes curling against the sheets, fingers clutching at Eliot’s hair. “El, oh—Eliot—”

“You’re good, baby. God, I can’t keep my hands off of you. You like that?”

“Nghh—yeah—please—” There was really no other answer. Because, fuck yes, absolutely he did fucking like it, even if Eliot was being a complete and total _ass_ on _purpose_ and weaponizing his marvelous hands to avoid actually talking to Quentin. God, yes, he liked it so fucking much. There was even a small part of his brain that was desperately turned on by that Eliot seemed to enjoy making Quentin shut up by getting his dick hard. But he was not to be dissuaded. If Eliot was going to do this, Quentin could do it right back. “I still want you to fuck me— _oh_ —”

Somewhere in between his grunting and twisting in the sheets, Eliot had conjured oil and dripped it over Quentin’s cock, and now, Quentin was fucking into his slick, warm fist. Eliot laughed and sucked at Quentin’s earlobe, which sent a flurry of lighting-quick sparks down his spine, jolting through his dick as Eliot swiped a thumb over his tip. “You think I don’t want to fuck you? I really have no fucking clue where you got that impression. You feel what you do to me?”

Eliot’s voice bordered on derisive—almost the way Eliot had sounded that day they’d first met—but there was an added air of indulgence. It hit Quentin in a way that he wouldn’t be able to properly describe without writing a fucking essay on the ins and outs of sex with Eliot. The feeling was akin to embarrassment, just mixed with a healthy dose of that cared-for and protected thing that Eliot did so well. And _fuck_ , it turned him on a fuck of a lot. “I just want you—bad— _ah_ —all the time—”

“God, yeah. You’re always so hot for me, aren’t you? You can’t get enough.”

“Mm—I am—oh _fuck_ , Eliot, I’m so close—”

“Hold on, baby. Let me tell you what’s going to happen.” 

“Oh—mm—okay—” Oh _God_. When Eliot talked like _that_ , he fucking lost his mind. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he bucked up against Eliot’s gorgeous hand as Eliot laughed and kissed along the shell of his ear. 

“You desperately want me to fuck you?” Eliot whispered in his ear. 

Quentin nodded wildly. Eliot’s grip on his cock loosened, and he went tortuously slow, keeping Quentin right at the edge. “El, please—yeah, I want that. Yeah.”

“You think you’re ready to take my cock?” Eliot thrust against his hip as he jerked Quentin off, and Quentin’s brain melted. “You think you can?”

“Yeah, I wanna try. Wanna see if I can take it. Oh fuck—” Eliot circled his thumb around the head of Quentin’s cock, pressing down against his frenulum, drawing a jagged cry from Quentin’s throat. This wasn’t exactly how Quentin pictured this conversation going. 

“Then I’ll do it, tomorrow night. I’ll fuck you senseless after I get all nice and open with my tongue and my fingers. Okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin groaned. “Okay— _fuck_ —” He closed his eyes and saw stars. Molten heat poured through his body in waves, spreading out from his hips, down his thighs, swirling in the pit of his abdomen as Eliot’s rhythm changed, faster now. Eliot was pressing his cock against Quentin’s thigh, rutting against him and groaning as he jerked Quentin, as he covered Quentin’s mouth in a hungry, biting kiss. 

“God, you—you want this so bad. You’re so greedy for my cock you can’t wait anymore.” Eliot laughed against his ear, breath hot, his hand gripping Quentin’s cock tight as he fucked up into Eliot’s oil-slicked fist. 

“Yeah,” Quentin whined. “Yeah, I am. Oh, fuck, _Eliot_ —”

Eliot let out a little moan right next to Quentin’s ear, and he nipped at his earlobe. Quentin’s mind went blank, hips bucking up, his low moans turning to a low, animal sound as heat coiled inside and his balls drew up tight.

“That’s it, baby,” Eliot growled. “Come on my hand—make a mess.” 

Quentin came with a punch to the gut, crying out as warmth spilled over over Eliot’s fingers. Before Quentin could even think, Eliot was on top of him, hiking up Quentin’s leg and fucking into the crease of his thigh, slick with come, his body skimming Quentin’s oversensitive cock, sending shocks through Quentin’s core that were almost painful but too fucking good to stop. Quentin was groaning, his fingers gripping hard against Eliot’s shoulders. “El, _please_ ,” he whispered, though he didn’t know quite what he was asking for. 

Eliot let out a choked noise, almost a sob, his hips snapping, coming in molten-hot streaks over Quentin’s side, over the sheets. “Q,” he said, kissing him on his slack mouth. “ _Oh_ , Q.”

Quentin dropped the thread of what he wanted to talk about. He guessed they’d come to some sort of conclusion on sex, and besides, Eliot kissed Quentin for a long, long time after, rubbing his stubble over Quentin’s cheeks like he was fucking marking him, until Quentin knew he’d go to class with at least two hickeys, swollen lips, and fucking stubble burn all over his cheeks. He’d be embarrassed, but it was so good, he didn’t fucking care. The whole campus already knew who Eliot was fucking, and Quentin would wear it like a goddamn slutty badge. They could all be jealous, and for a little while in his life, Quentin would feel like a king. 

***

In the shower afterwards, Quentin and Eliot made out like teenagers, and Quentin went to class unsure about whether or not he had washed his hair. He was still in a haze when Sunderland started discussing the theory of transmutation as it related to Newtonian physics. He took some lackluster notes, still a little fuzzy and drifting from Eliot’s touch, the careful way he pulled Quentin into his arms, the feel of El’s lips against his ear, the way he seemed to lose control with Quentin. Maybe that’s the way he always was with the boys he took to bed. This was probably _normal_ for Eliot. He just happened to be the boy of the moment. Quentin assured himself, as he always did, that Eliot would still be friends with him when he met the next one. 

He fixed his eyes on Sunderland and watched her as she mapped out the special theory of transmutation on the chalkboard, drifting off and thinking about tomorrow night, the thrill of it sinking into him, his whole body tingling with anticipation. He knew that like, the whole _virginity_ thing was a construct, and it didn’t really _matter_ , and it didn’t bond a person to another in any way. And he wasn’t _really_ a fucking virgin. But he let himself live in the idea that it was important, that it mattered, that they both wanted this and he’d waited for it—and Eliot had been waiting, too, apparently. He liked that it sort of felt like it meant something, even if it didn’t. 

After class, he wandered off in a bit of a daze when Julia caught him by the arm. “Q, what’s going on? I was yelling for you.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was, uh. Just a little distracted. I was up late.”

“I bet you were.” Julia touched his cheek, where Eliot’s stubble had made his skin just a bit pink. He’d told El he really fucking liked it, so he had started shaving less so he could rough Quentin up. Just a little.

“Hey, cut it out.” Quentin pushed her arm away.

“You taking care of yourself?”

“Jesus Christ, Julia. I barely see you, and this is how you launch into me. Every single time we have class together, it’s ‘Are you getting enough sleep, Q?’ and ‘Are you concentrating on your work?’ Oh and my favorite, ‘Did Eliot ditch you yet?’”

“That’s not—” Julia puffed up like an angry dachshund. 

“The way you said it? Yeah, okay. You said, ‘Are you and Eliot actually still a thing?’ That was last week. The week before, you asked if I was ready for something with ‘someone like Eliot.’ And the week before _that_ , you freaked out when I said we weren’t actually dating. Do you get how all of that sounds?”

Julia groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure sounds like you did.” He saw Julia for about fifteen minutes every week, and she _always_ insisted on asking about Eliot. “You know, you should actually take the time to get to know him. He’s my friend. Yes, we’re—we’re, like, friends with benefits. Yes, it’s all working out fine. He’s very…” What should Quentin say? Eliot was… fucking hot. He was incredible at sex. He left Quentin shaking every night. And most mornings. He made Quentin laugh. They’d watched all of ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender,’ and Eliot had taken to calling it ATLA and had wanted to watch the movie—but even Quentin had his limits. He’d suggested a few other shows that hit his nerd heartstrings, and Eliot had actually _wanted_ to stay in all last Saturday and watch TV with him and Margo with some of Josh’s less powerful brownies (no more fucking muffins, thank you very much) and a cocktail he’d designed to ‘celebrate Quinten and Margo’s nerd friendship.’ Margo had pretended to dry heave when he’d said it, but they were all pretty stoned by that point, and she said she wasn’t turning down any drinks, no matter how sappy Eliot got. He’d tell Julia all of that but it felt… well, it just felt so hard to think about all those things together, much less say it out loud. 

“He’s very what?”

“He’s kind. And funny. And great in bed.”

“So I’ve heard.” She raised an eyebrow. “And I hear you’ve stopped sleeping in your own room.” 

“I mean… sometimes I nap in my room.” Quentin scratched absently at his hair, pushing it back behind his ear. “It’s just like… convenient to crash in Eliot’s room. I’m just. Already there, most of the time.”

“And that’s not confusing the whole ‘friends with benefits’ territory?”

“Uh. No. I mean—God. I love you, but I’m a grown man. I can navigate, like, being someone’s fuck buddy. I think it’s just—it’s just normal shit.”

“Q, I love you, too. You know this is just because I’m worried about you, right?”

“Yeah. I mean. I kinda figured, Jules. But you don’t need to be—”

“What happened when Molly Calligan broke up with you?”

Quentin huffed. “We really don’t need to rehash this.” Quentin fucking remembered it all too well. He’d had to take an incomplete in his Russian lit course, and he’d ended up taking summer courses to bring his average back up. The entire last month of that ill-fated semester, he’d been eating Fritos under his covers and crying into Julia’s lap. The only reason he hadn’t ended up checking himself in that time was because Julia kicked his ass and forcibly dragged him to both the psychiatrist and actually forced him to call his old therapist by holding his computer hostage until he called and talk to her about restarting appointments. Then, of course, Julia had dragged his ass onto the subway, carting him into Brooklyn once a week for _months_ and waiting for him with a poppyseed bagel and a ginger ale after every single appointment. She said she loved coming with him so she could go to Bagelsmith, but Quentin knew he was a train wreck, and she rightly didn’t trust him to make it there himself. Fuck, she’d earned the right to ask after him, hadn’t she? Goddammit. 

“I know you remember. You know that’s why—”

“I know why you’re worried,” he said gently. “I’m not in love with Eliot.” He didn’t quite meet Julia’s eyes, and his stomach twisted painfully because— _because_ that was just like, a touchy thing to say. About anyone. It didn’t have anything to do with Eliot. Not really. Not like, in a real way. It wasn’t really possible to fall in love with someone after three weeks. Or like, well, longer than that he guessed. Nine, ten weeks since they’d met. Something like that. It was about sex and friendship. And Eliot making French toast and mimosas on Sunday mornings. And Quentin reading to Eliot from _The Princess Bride_ in the evenings. Eliot reminding him to brush his teeth at night and Quentin bringing him fucking mineral water while he was studying. And waking up to see the sunlight spilling over their bed and illuminating the burnished copper highlights in Eliot’s thick, dark hair. And falling asleep wrapped safely in his arms, sleeping better than he ever had in his life. It wasn’t _love_.

_Oh shit. Fuck. Fucking shit._

“Okay, then,” Julia said. “That’s not what I was really asking. I didn’t think you were. I mean. Are you?”

Quentin swallowed hard and laughed uncomfortably. “Uh, _no_ ,” he said, a little too firmly, maybe. He laughed uncomfortably. “I just said I wasn’t. So. I’m fine. We’re fine. He and I are—fine. It’s good. And I’ll be—I have class across campus in like—it’ll be like, ten minutes. So. Okay. We should, you know. Get dinner this weekend.”

“I’m free tomorrow night,” Julia said, hopeful, smiling. He could smooth things over and totally ignore the train of thought that had just barreled through his head. Except. Shit. 

“Oh. Uh. I’m not. Um. Free? Tomorrow night. I’ve just got—busy. And there’s a party Saturday night. So, you should come to that. And then. Dinner. Sunday?”

“Quentin. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. At all. I just realized I left my notebook back at the Cottage. So I gotta go get that before my herbalism class. Can’t go forgetting my notes, can I? That’d be—fucking—crazy.” Jesus Christ, he sounded like a complete lunatic. 

“Ooo-kay,” Julia said. “So I’ll see you at the party Saturday? And then we’ll grab dinner on Sunday.”

“Sure thing, Jules.” Quentin didn’t wait for her to respond. He loped off toward the Cottage, fully intent on skipping that stupid fucking plant class where Professor Bax never noticed when he fell asleep. He needed—well, a few things. A fucking drink. A cigarette. Fritos. No— _not_ Fritos. That was depression food, and he wasn’t going to make that mental association right the fuck now. Nope, he was going to be fucking calm as fuck and numb himself. Like, just slightly. Safely. So he could process this without his brain running in circles and leaping over itself. 

When he stumbled into the Cottage, it was blissfully empty downstairs. He threw down his messenger bag, and, maybe shaking a little bit, poured himself some vodka at Eliot’s makeshift bar, topping it off with lukewarm tonic water. It tasted disgusting since he really had no finesse with getting proportions right in the best of times. But he needed to kill the thing in his head or at least slow it down. He gulped down the drink and poured another. The alcohol started to kick in as he started to sip at his shitty vodka tonic. Leave it to Quentin to screw up a simple fucking drink. 

“Quentin.”

Quentin nearly fucking levitated, which would be fitting since he thought social anxiety must be his leading internal Circumstance. Magic comes from pain, or maybe just like, fucking being afraid of people. “Margo, what the _fuck_?” 

When he turned around, Margo was reclining on the sofa like she’d been there the whole time. “You’re lookin’ a little squirrelly there, Coldwater. Come sit next to Mama.”

“God, you’re weird. Who calls themselves ‘Mama?’”

“Me. I do. I’m the friendly fucking den mother for all of you little bitches in this house.”

“More like a den viper. Or a badger,” Quentin said, joining Margo on the sofa. He’d been planning to go hide in a pile of blankets on his bed, but he knew it was futile to attempt escape once Margo had him in her sights. There was also something comforting about sinking down next to Margo, like she might be able to protect him from the spinning thoughts of ‘Eliot’ and ‘sex’ and the other thing. 

“My patronus is a badger-mole,” she said. She put her phone down and leaned into Quentin, looping her arm around him. 

“That’s, like, blatant fandom mixing, and I’m not here for it.”

She cackled. “You love it. You love that I know what a badger-mole is.”

“Maybe,” Quentin said, sipping at his drink. He thought better of sipping and downed the rest of it, putting his empty glass down on the coffee table. “Also maybe not.”

“Damn, Coldwater. I thought you had class. And you’re here in the middle of the day, drinking your woes away. Eliot is rubbing off on you.” She paused. “I mean, quite literally. You keep forgetting to put up silencing wards.”

Quentin blushed. “Yeah? I thought El kept them on his room all the time.”

“Oh honey, no. He’s trying to show you off. Don’t let Eliot be in charge of anything where he can lean into his exhibitionist streak.” 

Quentin swallowed against the lump in his throat, cheeks burning. He should be… super embarrassed. But it was kind of hot, wasn’t it? He wasn’t ashamed to be with Quentin, wasn’t trying to stop people from hearing them together. He thought of tomorrow night. Friday night. Jesus. “Oh, wow. That’s uh.” 

“Yeah, seriously. He’s a kinky bitch. I mean, like moderately kinky. But just ask, and he’ll try whatever.” 

“Oh.” Quentin needed another drink. If Eliot were here, he could just call a drink over from the bar. If Quentin tried to do that, he’d spill shit all over the floor. He lifted himself from the sofa, a little woozy and poured himself another drink, this time paying attention to how much tonic he was adding.

“There are limes in the mini-fridge.”

“Cool. I’ll. I mean. That’ll make it taste better.” He got out a lime and cut it, squeezing a little in his drink. Margo was watching him; he could feel it. When he sat back down on the couch, she took his drink and performed a little tut, chilling the drink and frosting the glass.

“Should be better chilled, heathen,” Margo said. She handed the drink back to him, and Quentin took a long gulp. It was better, and he was starting to feel a little loose and disjointed from the alcohol, his limbs relaxing. “Or are you too anxious to care right now?”

“Who said I’m anxious?”

“You’re radiating anxiety like a broken tea kettle. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“Nothing. Just. Classes. Nothing really. You know. Just sometimes, some days are strange.”

“Yes, Q. Some days are strange.” She was watching him with that frank interest again, like she was trying to leech thoughts from his head. Margo wasn’t a psychic, but she might as well be given how she could read people. “How are you and Eliot doing?”

“Me and… what?”

“You and Eliot. You heard me.” 

“Um. Fine. Doesn’t he like, tell you? About whatever?” He had a brief vision of Eliot painting Margo’s nails while gossiping to her about Quentin’s dick. Which was. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was feeling. He rubbed at his face.

“No, Q, he does not tell me about ‘whatever.’ He’s cagey as fuck about the two of you.”

“And that’s not… how he usually is?” Quentin’s voice sounded about an octave higher than it usually was. 

“No. It’s not. I know every detail of his hookups from the past year and a half. But not you. For some reason.” She was still looking at him like there might be an answer on his forehead.

“I, uh. He’s busy. I guess. With his thesis stuff.”

“He’s not. You know he’s not. He’s busy tenderly railing you. I’m surprised he gets his dick out of you long enough for you to go to class.”

Quentin took another swallow of his drink and chewed on some of the lime pulp. “I mean, uh. It’s not… we haven’t.” He stopped and shot his eyes over to Margo. Maybe drinking around Margo was a bad idea. Or maybe it was the _best idea_. It was one of those two. 

“Wait a second. Are you saying—”

“I wasn’t saying anything specific. Uh. I need to smoke.” He polished off his third drink of the afternoon. His therapist probably wouldn’t approve of this as a coping method, but she wasn’t fucking here, was she? He launched himself off the sofa and walked out to the patio, half-expecting Margo to follow him. He breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t. He slumped down in one of the chairs, feeling sort of more relaxed but mostly just… drunk. 

He jumped when the door opened. And there was Margo, with two drinks in hand, wearing her big hat and sunglasses. Even though he thought it was probably October, the afternoons were still bright and sunny and hot. “You didn’t think you were going to get away that easy, did you?”

Quentin let out a laugh. “Yeah. No. I guess not.”

She sat down in the chair across from him, lying back and putting her feet up in Quentin’s lap. She pushed one of the drinks across the table with a flick of her fingers. “Drink up, buttercup. I have questions.”

Quentin lit a cigarette with one of the little pyromancy charms Eliot hat taught him. He took a long inhale and shrugged. “I mean. There’s not much to say.”

“Au fucking contraire. You inadvertently dropped a very interesting hint back there, Captain Day Drinking.”

“I mean. It’s not _that_ interesting.” He winced.

“Yeah, it truly fucking is. So, what I’m gathering is that Eliot hasn’t fucked you yet?”

“Margo!” He didn’t know why he expected her to say it a little less crudely. He took another drag from the cigarette. 

“I mean, that’s what you implied. I certainly _would_ be privy to this very important information if Eliot told me anything about what’s going on with you—”

“Nothing’s going on. We’re friends. We’re sleeping together. It’s not that complicated.”

“Quentin, honey. Have you ever had an uncomplicated fuck-buddy situation?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “This girl in college. Um. Liz. And her housemate, Justin.”

“Oooh, Justin. And what did you do with Justin?”

“Why are you asking about Justin? Isn’t it like, sexist or something to be like, specifically interested in Justin?” Truth be told, Quentin was really never all that interested in Justin, so the question just seemed out of fucking place. Quentin was pleasantly buzzed—nicotine and alcohol mixing and mashing down the things he was thinking before. Eliot was fucking great just like he was. And Margo was being super annoying, but she really was, like, just so incredible. He was lucky to have friends. And glad to still have Julia—but it was nice to have people around who didn’t coddle him. 

“Because I am fucking curious, Q. I didn’t know you had a history with boys.”

“I definitely do now.”

Margo sipped daintily at her drink, grinning. “Yeah, it sure sounds like you do. But tell me about this Justin. Eliot knows about him, right?”

“Yeah, I mean. I mentioned it. I hooked up with Justin after things ended with Liz—fucking casually. And uncomplicated-ly.”

“Definitely not a word.”

“Is now. Anyway. I mean, we made out a lot. And uh, hand jobs.” He swirled his drink and took another sip. “Is Eliot around?”

“No, sweetie. He’s not. Has a meeting with Sunderland.”

“Good. Uh. Yeah, that’s it. With Justin. Essentially.”

“Did you like him?”

Quentin shrugged. “He was kind of a dick. But he was hot, so.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just curious. You didn’t answer my previous question about Eliot. You two haven’t fucked? Like properly. In any configuration?”

Quentin lifted his drink and hid behind it. “Uh. No. He said it was better to wait.”

“He did, did he? That’s _fascinating_.”

“Uh. Why? He just. I mean. We’ve done a lot. Of things. I assume he’s just like, being cautious. Or, I don’t know. I just thought this was probably how he is when he’s with someone. Not ‘with’ someone, I mean. Like, hooking up on a regular, uh. Schedule.”

Margo watched him like she was looking for something in his face. After a moment, something shifted in her face. She appeared to be satisfied. “Honey, he doesn’t hook up with anyone on a regular anything. And he doesn’t hold off on sex. Now in the time I’ve known him. Trust me. I used to get all the details.”

“I mean. Do you think—I mean, I thought it was because he just, wants to let me down easy when the time comes.” Quentin finished the rest of the fourth drink, and yeah, he needed to quit while he was ahead. It was nice just sitting out here in the sun, giving voice to one of the things he’d been holding tight in his chest for the past three weeks. He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it up into the air, vanishing it. “Like, hopefully we can still be friends after this.”

He expected Margo to laugh, but she didn’t say anything. She poked one of her toes at his side. “That’s what you think is going to happen?”

“I mean, that’s what he—I mean, he’s not like a relationship person, right?”

“That’s what he has the world believe, Q. It’s just easier not to commit. Then he figures he won’t get hurt.”

“I mean, he doesn’t think that I would want to—or that I would ever—I mean, I feel like this can’t be all that important to him.” 

“Then you’re a moron, Q.”

“ _You’re_ a moron,” he said. He was on the border of very drunk. “I mean do you think—hm. It’s not because he doesn’t—I mean know he _wants_ me—” Quentin felt his stomach doing a weird churning thing. He lit another cigarette. “Which is weird. It’s weird that anyone would.”

“Oh, honey. You’re hot. You just don’t seem to know it. And you know Eliot has a thing for hopeless nerds, right?”

Quentin cut his eyes at her. “I mean. He’s friends with _you_. So I guess that’s like, a reasonable conclusion to draw.”

“Oh. My. God.” She kicked at him. “Take that back!” 

“Hey—ow! Stop that—” Margo jammed her foot into his side, and he started laughing. “That fucking tickles. Stop—stop it—”

“Get your feet off, Bambi. He belongs to me.” 

Quentin’s heart started pounding hard, the blood rushing in his ears. Eliot walked up to the table, wearing one of his polo shirts and suspenders, a red cardigan draped over his shoulders. Fuck, he looked hot. And Quentin had been about to drop some very serious news on Margo, by fucking coercion, he might add. He’d thought… maybe he could ask her what he ought to do. If Eliot really wanted to _be_ with Quentin, he would have asked, right? If he truly wanted that.

“You haven’t properly claimed him,” Margo said, glaring at Eliot. They were so _odd_ sometimes. 

“Oh? How’s this?” Eliot leaned down, his hand slipping to the back of Quentin’s neck, his lips brushing against Quentin’s, sending shocks of delight to his core. Quentin raised his hand reflexively to cup Eliot’s face, his thumb brushing over his sideburn as Eliot deepened the kiss, tongue slipping into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin whimpered into Eliot’s mouth and threaded his fingers deeper into Eliot’s hair, thinking, _Only I get to do this, and maybe that means…_ He shook off the thought. Better not to go down that road. Better not to end up in bed eating Fritos for the rest of the term. But the kiss—oh, that was fucking nice. 

Quentin was breathless when Eliot pulled away. “El. Hey.” He couldn’t help smiling. 

Eliot touched his face and brushed his finger over a dimple. “Hey.” 

“Wow. Well. You know I don’t get horny for this Nicolas Sparks shit,” Margo said, rolling her eyes.

Sometimes, he really didn’t know what the fuck Margo was talking about. 

They fell into their usual rhythm of three after Eliot sat down and joined them, bitching about Sunderland, and resting his hand easily on Quentin’s thigh. After Eliot summoned another round of drinks for all of them, Quentin could barely remember what he’d talked about with Julia that afternoon. Maybe it was a shitty coping mechanism, but he had plenty of time to work that out. He was only twenty-four. There were a lot of years left to get his shit actually together. For right now, he could just let go of the complicated feelings and impossible hopes and sink into the simple pleasure of being this close to his people.

Later, when he fell asleep with Eliot wrapped around him, he let himself feel hope, just a little, that this would be something a bit more than just ‘casual.’ It was silly. But he fell asleep smiling.

***

And. Well. Then it was Friday. And Quentin had to sit through three classes while all he could think about was Eliot. He’d _said_ he’d… you know. Fuck Quentin. A frisson of nervous excitement swept through his body as he half-paid attention to Sunderland and the equations he was supposed to be learning. Eliot wouldn’t back out of it, would he? It seemed like… not a thing that would happen. They hadn’t talked about it this morning. He was in a haze by the time he finished his last class, and he wandered outside, wondering exactly what ‘tomorrow night’ meant to Eliot. Like… seven in the evening or like midnight? Or what? Or like, maybe he’d conveniently forget and distract Quentin with an impromptu party or a blow job—that was always more than fine, but. Maybe, like he’d thought, he just didn’t like Quentin enough to do anything more, even though that didn’t quite make sense. Maybe being friends made it somehow too convoluted for Eliot. Maybe Quentin should back off, just get out before he developed _real_ feelings for Eliot. He didn’t already have real feelings for El, did he? Not like, the super messy kind. More of a… curiosity about what the fuck was happening between them. 

Quentin was halfway across the Sea when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Eliot grinning at him. He threw his arm around Quentin’s shoulder. “Hey, baby, I’ve got a surprise.”

Quentin’s cheeks went hot, and he put an arm slowly around Eliot’s waist as they walked. “For—uh—tonight?”

“Mm hmm. I was going to make you dinner tonight.” 

“Oh. I mean. You make dinner most nights. And you and me and Margo—” 

Eliot gripped his shoulder, a little stiff. “I thought… maybe just for you and me.”

Quentin’s stomach twisted. “Oh. Uh. That would be nice.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“No, no—I want to. We just haven’t done that before.”

“I thought it would be—”

“Yeah—of course—I mean. I. Okay. El.” They stopped outside the Cottage. Quentin’s insides had gone cold. “I don’t know if you’re doing this because I’m like—” Needy? Clingy? 

“Q, get out of your head.” He took Quentin by the arms and held his gaze. “I’m doing this because I want to.”

Sometimes, being this close to Eliot put Quentin in mind of standing at the edge of a cliff, looking into a vast canyon, dangerously close to falling over the edge. Now Eliot had him in his arms in front of the house where they lived, where they slept in the same bed, Quentin held firmly in his arms. And he was nonchalantly informing Quentin that Eliot had planned a _date_ for them before they _fucked_ for the first time, his eyes amber in the afternoon light, highlighted with a smudge of gold eyeliner, all sincerity and casual grace. He brushed his lips against Quentin’s, humming a little as Quentin deepened the kiss. Just right out there, where anyone could see. It was _so much_ , far more than he’d imagined he could have.

Quentin’s body felt like a live wire, throwing off sparks, wild and dangerous. “That—dinner sounds great, El.” 

Eliot smiled, sweet and full and with none of the façade he usually carried with him, and Quentin nearly melted into the earth. “C’mon. We’ll have an early dinner and spend the evening together. I have plans.”

“Oh.” It was all Quentin could say because Eliot was holding his hand and pulling him into the Cottage, and telling him about the ingredients he’d gotten and flitting around the kitchen like he was about to host a soirée. He kept talking while he prepped ingredients and then firmly pushed Quentin out of the kitchen and toward the stairs so he could shower and meet him _in his room_ in an hour. Quentin washed up nervously, trying _not_ to think of the way Eliot’s hands felt on his body, the way his mouth felt on his skin, the open vulnerability he’d seen in El’s eyes right before he’d pulled Quentin inside. He used a bit of someone’s conditioner after he washed his hair and then stood with his head against the wall, letting it soak in like the bottle told him to do. He let the hot water run over his skin until it burned. 

When he got out of the shower, he felt his muscles tense the fuck up as he realized he probably needed to find something to wear. Eliot, of course, was clad in his burgundy button-down with a plaid cravat and a gold-hued vest embroidered with tiny dragonflies. He looked like a GQ fashion spread, and Quentin was… well, Quentin was Quentin. And he really didn’t have anything really _nice_ to wear, and he spiraled out a bit, wondering if it was too obvious to wear something nicer than normal, and if it even mattered at all. Would Eliot even notice? He opted for a black cashmere sweater his mother had gotten him right before he came to Brakebills. He’d never worn it since it fit too tight for his tastes, but it was more expensive than anything else he owned, and it really didn’t look half bad with his nice-ish pair of jeans and, well, he guessed he should wear just socks since they weren’t going anywhere. It would all end up on the floor, so it didn’t really matter. At least it didn’t look too out of character or try-hard. 

He arrived on Eliot’s door approximately sixty-two minutes after he’d sent Quentin upstairs. Eliot had altered his wards to permit Quentin entrance at any time, so the honeycombed magic shimmered and fell when Quentin knocked. Quentin suppressed a shiver at the feeling of Eliot’s magic, clean and bright, the taste of it like sugared lemon on the back of his tongue. The door unlatched and opened on its own to reveal Eliot reclined on the floor in a pile of floor pillows that Quentin had never seen before. His curls were a little messy, and he’d hung up the cravat, the top three buttons of his shirt undone to reveal lovely pale skin and a dark chest hair that made Quentin itch to touch. When Eliot’s eyes met his, he felt his knees go liquid. His heart pounded, blood rushing in his ears. Fuck. Eliot was so _stunning_. And he’d made an indulgent feast of appetizers and little dishes, and he’d somehow managed to get it all up to his room with a couple of bottles of Zinfandel and made the whole thing look like one of those restaurants where you sit on poufs instead of chairs and eat from a table a foot or two off the ground. 

“Clockwise from your direction,” Eliot started, and Quentin couldn’t help smiling. “Roasted red peppers with goat cheese, grilled peaches, _patatas bravas_ —”

“Those look like fries.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. So. Olive tapenade with French bread, bacon wrapped dates, and plum almond tartlets.” 

“What’s a tartlet?” Quentin sat down across from Eliot, his mind buzzing, thoughts unmoored from the safe compartments he kept them in, with ‘sex’ and ‘friend’ and Eliot’ and ‘love’ refusing to stay in their proper places. He’d struggled with keeping his expectations where they needed to be ever since he was old enough to have a crush on someone, always throwing himself into loving someone, heart-first, ignoring logic and reason. Quentin, much to his chagrin, had deeply ingrained visions of a fairytale kind of love with midnight confessions and stargazing and long walks in the park and pet names. When he got to college and divested himself of his feelings for Julia, he’d tamped all of that Disney-tinted nonsense down and had only let it bubble over in his relationship with Molly, and that had failed spectacularly. This was… unsafe territory, with Eliot laid out like a Wildean wet dream with a picnic full of foods Quentin actually _liked_ because that’s how Eliot was. He’d listened. Quentin’s heart felt like it might be splitting, cracking, with those eyes on his. 

“It’s a small tart, Q,” Eliot said, pouring Quentin a glass of wine. When he handed it to him, his fingers lingered on Quentin’s and brushed up the length of his arm.

“Kinda figured. Wanted to hear you say ‘tart.’” 

Eliot laughed and put together a little plate for Quentin, carefully selecting one of each item. “You could have just asked nicely if you want me to talk dirty.”

“I never really need to ask, do I?” He sipped at the wine, hoping it might quell the thrumming in his veins, the hazy-foggy feeling that he got whenever he glanced over at Eliot. It was worse now than it ever had been. He’d been gone on Eliot since the moment he saw him, hadn’t he? Not just in a wanting-to-get-his-mouth-on-that-dick kind of way, either, as Quentin had tried—many times—to convince himself. Fucking Julia. He knew it wasn’t her _fault_ , but she’d made him think about all this shit, when not thinking was infinitely less terrifying.

“No, no. It comes naturally when I’m with you. You make me think filthy things.” He held Quentin’s gaze. There was hunger there, open desire, directed right at Quentin. He felt like a character in a movie, watching his own fantasy play out in real time. If he were smart, he’d probably leave—just run. He knew now that he’d been fooling himself to think that this could be casual for him. It had never been casual for Quentin. And for Eliot—he didn’t know how deep he wanted to be with one person. The thoughts pinged back and forth in his head, even as he drank wine to dull them and took bites of the roasted red pepper, letting the sharp, creamy cheese and slight bitterness of the pepper melt on his tongue, trying to focus just on the taste, on the moments with Eliot that would probably end all too soon and leave him devastated in ways he’d never expected at the outset of this. He tried to will himself to tell Eliot that this was too close to what he wanted, and it was breaking something open inside of him. Instead, he listened as Eliot talked about the ideas he had for his thesis and laughed with him about Todd singeing his eyebrows in his latest pyromancy fuckup. He hung on Eliot’s words and savored them, inching closer as he poured himself another glass of wine. 

Eliot leaned forward and kissed him when Quentin put down his glass. It was a soft thing, Eliot’s hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek and leaving a sparkling sensation just beneath his skin. 

Quentin knew the pink flush he hated so much was spreading over his face and chest. “What was that for?”

“No reason. I like kissing you.”

“You just said ‘no reason,’ and then you, like. Stated a reason.” 

Eliot snorted. “Leave it to you to ruin my romantic moment.” 

“That’s what you’re going for? Romance?” 

“Didn’t you catch on?” Eliot didn’t give Quentin time to respond—which was just as well because Quentin really had a _lot_ of confusion regarding what he was supposed to catch onto, and which conclusions he was meant to draw from the way Eliot’s behavior conflicted with his words. Instead— _instead_ —Eliot picked up one of the tartlets and held it up to Quentin’s mouth. “These are my crowning achievement. Try it, baby. Tell me how good it is.”

Quentin took a bite, marveling at Eliot’s long fingers and the shy smile he was wearing and relishing the burst of sweet flavor as it hit his tongue. He licked his lips and watched as Eliot’s eyes darkened. There were lots of rational things Quentin should have been doing—talking to Eliot about his feelings, or maybe clarifying what kind of ‘casual’ this was. But then he was pretty sure they wouldn’t fuck if he started rambling about—well, the complex, serious things he’d been considering. Instead he scooted even closer to Eliot. 

“’S so good. I need more,” Quentin said. He opened his mouth and gazed at Eliot, shameless. He’d already jumped off the cliff. A while ago, now. He’d fallen from a great height, and he was standing at another precipice, half way down to his destruction at the bottom of the canyon. Might as well jump and see if he could fly. 

Eliot placed the remaining bite of tart between Quentin’s lips, his gaze fixed on Quentin. He caught Eliot’s hand, holding it to his lips as he tasted the crumbly pastry, the sharp, juicy bits of plum. Then he pulled two of Eliot’s fingers into his mouth, licking away the sweetness, sucking until Eliot’s fingers were wet and curling gently, pressing against Quentin’s tongue. Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned into Eliot, almost knocking into the plate of bacon-wrapped dates. Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s forehead and moaned, a soft, breathy sound that sent a bolt of heat through his core, swirling through him and settling like a promise in the cradle of his hips. Quentin’s eyes fluttered as he sucked at Eliot’s fingers. Whatever happened, and yeah, Quentin knew it was bound to blow up in his face, he knew, at the very least, Eliot wanted him, here and now. 

“Are we done with dinner?” Eliot said, low, pushing Quentin’s hair back and kissing just below his ear, making the back of his spine prickle. “I’m not complaining. Just checking in.”

Quentin nodded, still holding Eliot’s wrist and licking over the pads of his fingers. God, he was buzzed from the wine, and it felt like he was glowing wherever Eliot touched him, when he whispered in his ear, his voice rumbling and deep. He sucked harder on Eliot’s fingers, cheeks hollowing, relishing all of Eliot’s surprised, turned-on sounds. These moments, stolen away from the shitty parts of Quentin’s life, were better than anything else he’d known. Quentin had come to Brakebills expecting that magic would be everything he was missing. It was undeniably incredible, and it sat at the very center of who he was. But this—this was better. 

“Then we’re done with dinner, baby.” _Baby._

Quentin felt that mix of exhilaration and embarrassment that he got when El called him ‘baby’ or ‘sweet boy’ in that rough, low voice, or when he looked at Quentin with unbridled lust, eyes full of longing. Eliot took his fingers away, and Quentin whimpered. Eliot shushed him and gathered him into his arms, pulling Quentin onto his lap and lifting his shirt to run his fingers over his abdomen. Eliot held him with one arm and moved his other through a series of tuts that moved their dishes to the corner of his room. He brushed his lips against Quentin’s cheek. “You still want to?”

“Yeah. If you’re talking about—”

“I am,” Eliot said, letting out a long, shuddering breath and pressing his head against Quentin’s shoulder, just staying there for a moment as Quentin pulled himself in closer, wrapping his legs around Eliot’s waist. “Your sweater is soft.”

“It’s my only nice sweater.” Quentin ran his fingers up through Eliot’s curls and smiled as Eliot melted into him. This was so fucking soft and romantic and not at all what Quentin had imagined. 

“You dressed up.” Eliot smiled against him, pleased. 

Quentin made a small, noncommittal sound. “It was clean.”

Eliot laughed, pressing his lips to Quentin’s neck and moving his tongue up toward Quentin’s jaw. “I’m gonna take things slow with you. I wanna make you feel so good.”

“You always make me feel good,” Quentin said, breathing harder now. He shivered and moved one hand to the front of Eliot’s shirt, slowly fiddling with the buttons. 

“There’s a spell.” Eliot raised one hand and started to cast, his movements precise so that Quentin might be able to pick it up. When he swept his fingers down in the final tut, his buttons released all at once, exposing the line of his lovely skin, hair thick over his chest, trailing down his stomach. Quentin put his hands beneath the fabric, pushing it back over Eliot’s shoulders, and tossing it aside. Eliot tugged at Quentin’s sweater, kissing him and nuzzling at his neck before pulling it off over his head. 

Quentin traced his fingers down Eliot’s long neck, over his shoulder and down the line of his arm, scratching through the hair on his chest and brushing over his nipples, feeling the gratifying intake of breath and the little tremor that rolled through Eliot’s body. Tenderness, bright and insistent, welled up inside of him, and he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. He buried his face against Eliot, murmuring against his skin. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, El.”

“You’re gorgeous, Q. I hope you know that.” Eliot kissed his head, gentle. 

“I—I dunno. I don’t feel that way.” 

“Trust me, baby. I’m an aesthete. I know beauty when I see it.” Eliot licked over the line of Quentin’s ear, tugging his earlobe between his lips. “And taste it.” He buried his nose in Quentin’s hair. “And smell it.” He moved his hand down low and unzipped Quentin’s jeans, torturously slow, then palmed his already hard cock, moaning a little as he did. “And feel it.”

“Oh my God,” Quentin breathed, inadvertently pushing into Eliot’s hand. He ached suddenly, thinking of losing this, missing out on seeing Eliot like he was right now. 

“You’re already so hard. God, you’re sexy,” Eliot said. “Let’s get you up on the bed so I can fuck you,” Eliot murmured, somehow managing to stand up and pick Quentin up with him, legs still wrapped around his waist. 

Quentin laughed. The distinct feel of magic sat around his lower body, strangely cushioning and cool against the fabric of his jeans. “Are you—God, you’re such a show off—”

“I think you were going to tell me—” Eliot put Quentin on his ridiculously decorative bed with the white coverlet and like twenty-five throw pillows, working his jeans off and tossing them to the floor. “—how hot it was that I picked you up. I’ve been practicing that move for—”

“Yeah, you’re so talented. So impressive,” Quentin said.

“Now, you sound like you’re being _sarcastic_ , and that just won’t do.” Eliot raised his hands into a showy little tut that lifted Quentin’s hips and— _fuck_ —actually pulled his boxers off, flying them across the room so that they hit with a swish against Eliot’s door. 

Quentin was a little breathless when his hips hit the bed again. “Hm—can you hold me down with—with your magic—”

“Oh, honey, I can do all sorts of things,” Eliot said. “Just—I’m just gonna keep it simple tonight.”

Quentin’s stomach tensed with—fuck— _all of it_. Eliot was gracefully stepping out of his trousers and his— _God_ —silk boxer briefs that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Not that Quentin hadn’t seen all there was to see of Eliot’s body, all then lean muscle and willowy lines and that big, thick cock, hanging heavy and wet at the tip already. Quentin gulped a little as Eliot climbed onto the bed, his cock in hand, knees between Quentin’s legs. “How should I—um—”

“I’m going to take care of you, okay? No need to get in your head.” Eliot leaned over him and smoothed his hair, kissing him, slow and tender. “There’s a few spells it’s good to know. Cleaning and protection, negates the need for a condom, and you know the one for lube.” 

Quentin watched the tuts, following the movements and the subsequent shimmer of magic in the air. Quentin propped himself up on his elbows, eyebrows knitted. “Do I need to—do anything—for the spells—”

“No. Let me.” Eliot was so _easy_ with all of this, slow and deliberate even though he was clearly turned on. Eliot lowered his mouth to Quentin’s again, kissing him and pressing his body over his, hitching forward just slightly when his cock was next to Quentin’s. Quentin groaned at the contact, his hands wrapping instinctively around the back of Eliot’s neck, fingers moving up and seeking out his hair as their mouths slotted together in a hungry kiss, Eliot’s teeth scraping over Quentin’s lips, nipping and biting before working downward over his neck and chest, licking over his nipples and moving down lower, his tongue darting out over Quentin’s skin. 

He gripped the base of Quentin’s cock tight and drew the head into his mouth, licking over it in circles as Quentin cried out and tugged at Eliot’s hair, vaguely aware that he didn’t remember if Eliot had put a silencing spell up along with his wards. He thought… maybe he hadn’t. Anyone who was home would hear Quentin screaming Eliot’s name, would hear him groaning as Eliot slid inside of him and fucked him. Jesus. 

Eliot looked into Quentin’s eyes and sucked him down all the way to the where his fingers held tight. He did it over and over, pulling back just as Quentin started to arch up into his mouth. Quentin’s mind began to go blank with all of his senses focused on the wet heat of Eliot’s mouth, the sloppy, filthy sounds of him sucking and deep throating Quentin’s cock, the feeling of Eliot’s hand as it found Quentin’s and held on tight. When Quentin’s groans grew frantic, Eliot let go of his cock with a wet pop. He grinned and tutted again, lifting Quentin’s hips with the odd weight of his telekinesis and moving a pillow below him before letting him go. He took one of Quentin’s legs and draped it over his shoulder before kissing down the inside of his thigh up. Quentin felt Eliot’s clever hands spreading his cheeks, Eliot’s warm, soft-textured tongue sweeping over his hole. 

He closed his eyes and threw his head back. “ _Eliot_ , fuck—you’re so good at that,” he heard himself moan, a strangled cry. Quentin felt his body loosen and relax, tingling warmth settling over him like a heavy blanket, his cock dripping onto his belly as Eliot pushed his tongue inside and groaned, spreading Quentin apart even more and going in further, just to see how far he could push. Quentin was _loud_ , crying out as Eliot dove into him, kissing and licking and pushing with his soft, hot, talented tongue before pressing a finger inside, slow and insistent. The finger, slippery with spit, giving that first tiny stretch, felt like the first answer to the question his body had been asking from the moment he saw Eliot. “More, Eliot, more—come _on_ —”

Eliot drew back and performed the tut for slicking his fingers, his breath hot and heavy against Quentin’s thigh. “I could eat you out for hours,” he sighed. Eliot circled Quentin’s hole with his slick fingers, sending a thrill through his cock. “I’m gonna do that sometime. Lick you all night.”

“Fuck,” Quentin moaned as Eliot pushed back inside of him with two fingers, pressing his mouth and tongue back around Quentin’s rim while he started to fuck Quentin slowly with his long fingers. Quentin cried out, reflexively pushing his hips down against Eliot’s hand. “Oh my—God, El—”

“You’re doing so good,” Eliot murmured, resting his head against Quentin’s thigh as he slipped a third finger inside of Quentin. “You always open up so nice. Like you want this so bad.”

Quentin nodded and pressed down against Eliot again, nearly sobbing when Eliot slowly pulled back and pushed in again, carefully avoiding his prostate except for a few strategic brushes that sent jolts of molten heat up his spine. “Eliot, oh—please—please fuck me—”

Eliot laughed, soft against Quentin’s skin. He didn’t respond to Quentin’s plaintive request, just brought his mouth down again where his fingers pushed in and out going slower now, pressing kisses along his seam as Quentin began to whine, babbling and begging for Eliot’s dick. When he finally pulled back, taking his fingers away, Quentin sobbed at the emptiness, pressing his legs around Eliot’s waist and trying to draw him back in. “Mm—no—put your legs down and spread them, then you hold them loose around my sides while I get my cock inside you.” 

Before he could think, Eliot had pushed his legs down and apart and was stroking himself, getting his cock wet with lube, biting his lip as he pressed the fat head of his cock against Quentin’s hole. Quentin, breathless and still moaning, pressed down against Eliot until the burn became almost much and he pushed, finally, inside. God, he was _so_ big, so _thick_. Quentin swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and raised his legs up, helpless, letting Eliot slip in just a little ways more. 

“Q—You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” he said, dreamy and distant. “God, you feel incredible.” He shivered and pushed up a little, desperate for more of Eliot’s cock. 

“Yeah? You want more?” Eliot groaned and petted over Quentin’s sides as he shifted.

“Yeah—more,” he croaked. “More—” 

“Tell me. How does it feel?” Eliot leaned forward and kissing Quentin, hungry and sloppy, as he pushed just a bit more, a bit further, his body quivering as he held himself in place. 

“So full. Fuck, like I’m—like I’m splitting apart.” Quentin’s spine was melting as his body adjusted and opened for Eliot’s beautiful dick. Eliot’s eyes were hazy and dark, his curls a bit wild, his chest flushed, pink lips parted. Something pricked inside of Quentin’s chest as Eliot grasped his hips and let out a long sigh. It was unavoidable, the way he felt about Eliot. This had been coming since the moment he walked out of that garden. “I want you—all the way inside—”

Eliot groaned and pushed in again, hips hitching forward until he was crammed all the way inside. “Fuck, baby. So tight, so good—you’re doing so good—” Eliot’s hips hitched back and forward again, shaky little thrusts that added to that heated rush of pleasure traveling up his spine. 

“Harder, come on—”

“You’re not in any position—” Eliot pulled back and snapped his hips forward again. “—to be making demands. But I’ll take your request—under advisement.” Eliot groaned and drove into Quentin _hard_ , making Quentin’s breath catch in his throat. Eliot might actually make him forget how to breathe, he thought absently, smiling as Eliot hitched forward and started to fall into a rhythm, fucking Quentin in earnest with long, fluid strokes, his big hands gripping at Quentin’s hips, fingertips pressed firm into Quentin’s skin. As Eliot fucked into him, sending that vast-tingling-stretching feeling through every fiber in Quentin’s being, he rocked back and forth on the bed, his body guided by the thrust of Eliot’s cock. The waves of arousal built slowly as Eliot’s abdomen brushed against his aching cock. The aching, full need spread out from his hips, reaching all the way to his fingers and toes. He dropped into the feeling of being held, taken and consumed by Eliot. He canted his hips just to take Eliot deeper.

Quentin placed a hand on Eliot’s chest, soft fur against his fingertips, thumb brushing over one of Eliot’s stiff, pink nipples. Eliot gasped and thrust inside of him harder, making Quentin cry out with the force of it, driving into him, filling the room with rhythmic slick-wet sounds. “Fuck—oh—Q. Q, you feel so amazing, sweetheart. I wanna show you how it feels, wanna have you fuck me so you know—”

Quentin bit down on his lip, drawing blood. His dick was dripping wet, pulsing. “I’m so close, El— _please_ —harder—”

Eliot shifted and wrapped his hand around Quentin’s dick, jerking him fast as he fucked into Quentin. The grasping need inside of him coiled tight, rising to an insane height, a whirling storm inside of him. Eliot bent down and kissed him, Eliot’s body so close that it drove Quentin’s cock hard into his fist, tipping him over the edge and making his mind go blank as he shot hot ropes of come over his stomach and chest, clenching down against Eliot and wailing with the insane newness of the sensation. He kept moaning as Eliot wrapped him in his arms, driving into him and chasing his own release, murmuring in Quentin’s ear about how good it felt when he clenched down on Eliot’s cock, how he wanted this all the time from Quentin, every day. Quentin shuddered with every thrust, almost too sensitive, legs shaking, wrapped around Eliot, drawing him closer into him. Eliot kissed him hard, picking up speed and gasping, his body quaking like in a pattern Quentin recognized. Quentin raised a hand to Eliot’s curls and returned his kiss, gentle and syrupy slow. Even as Eliot took his pleasure from Quentin, fucking hard into him, it felt _tender_ and caring. Eliot was always taking care with him, wasn’t he? Quentin thought he might understand the inner workings of his traitorous heart if it was falling a little in love with Eliot. Because there was nothing better—nothing better than this. 

“Baby,” Eliot said in a hushed voice,“I—I’m— _oh—_ ” Eliot let out guttural sound, hips hitching forward as he buried himself deep, clutching at his arms and neck and finally letting go, cock pulsing and releasing inside. 

Eliot lay, panting, over him, tangling his fingers in Quentin’s hair and pressing his lips to his cheek. Quentin breathed in and out, the grounding breaths he’d learned in all his years of therapy. He had wanted this so much, wanted Eliot, and he’d done a pretty excellent job of hiding his feelings from himself. It was one of his greatest talents, come to think of it. And he had everything he wanted, didn’t he? He’d known he’d take anything Eliot offered, whether it was friendship or something more. This was something more, but it existed in a weird, in-between place that felt… well, it felt fucking confusing.

Eliot’s body was heavy over his, lips and tongue and stubble pressing against his cheek. Eliot rolled over on his side, sighing and pulling Quentin with him, tucking him under one arm as he performed the series of cleaning tuts he preferred. Quentin watched his fingers in the half-light, following the shapes he made in the dark, listening to the whispered incantations. His hands were so fucking sexy, and he was so talented, like he barely had to think about magic, and it came to him. Quentin struggled endlessly with the big, powerful things that Eliot could do so easily.

“I can hear you thinking,” Eliot said. 

“Oh. Just watching you.” 

“I always like an audience.” 

“Solid performance. Eight out of ten.” 

“The sex or the cleaning spells?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Quentin tucked himself in closer to Eliot’s body, perfectly well aware that he needed to say _something_ to Eliot. But he’d lose this, wouldn’t he? He’d end up like Rodrick, the fucking Knowledge student that Eliot had boned and dumped.

Eliot played with Quentin’s hair, letting it fall through his fingers. “You good, Q?”

“Yeah. Really. I—really good.” He pressed his nose to Eliot’s skin, the soft space between his pec and the crook of his arm. El always smelled like cologne, alternating depending on the day. Citrus and sage or ocean and pine or whatever the fuck he and Margo lifted from Sephora. It had come as a shock that Eliot hadn’t been raised with money, wasn’t an East Coast boy like he seemed. But it had settled in among the other things about Eliot that Quentin had learned over time, the things Eliot didn’t exactly advertise. His family, his history, the way he was treated until he’d escaped to a new life.

Eliot seemed like he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t. It was awkward, wasn’t it? Quentin realized that while he knew himself in many ways, Eliot probably wasn’t aware that this whole evening had shaken up the way Quentin saw him. It was like he’d seen Eliot through clouded eyes for all this time, but now he’d held up the glass that revealed all the hidden spells underneath. It was cheesy as fuck, and it didn’t do Quentin any good to think it, but he couldn’t help it. The changes were there now in his head, taking up space. 

“Wanna put on a movie?” Eliot pulled a cigarette out of thin air (maybe literally) and lit it with a flick of his fingers. He waved his hand, and the window behind the bed flew open. 

“Yeah, in a little while,” Quentin said. He took the cigarette from Eliot’s hand and took a drag, blowing it out above them and handing the cigarette back. “You sure you don’t want to go see what’s going on downstairs?”

“I don’t,” Eliot said. “Do you?”

Quentin shook his head and settled back into the crook of Eliot’s arm.


	6. I Absolve You, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. 
> 
> Eliot creates angst for himself. (Mild angst.)
> 
> There's a party.
> 
> And guess what? More smut. 
> 
> FIN.

~Eliot~

It’s a crime against nature that Eliot hadn’t started fucking Quentin the second he arrived at Brakebills. He was so responsive and made the most wonderful noises. Pliant and easy beneath Eliot’s hands, agreeable and unquestioning when Eliot guided him, bitchy and indignant when he didn’t get what he wanted right away, demanding at the most surprising of times—Q was a gift, something that Eliot never believed he could have. His parents, his church, the fucking 4H club in Bargersville, Indiana—they’d all made it perfectly crystal clear that boys who fucked other boys didn’t get to have good, wholesome things. They might not have said it in those terms, but Eliot got the message. He’d expected to end up alone, do everything for himself—that’s what he’d always done, after all. According to his father, he’d probably end up dead long before he turned thirty. Until he’d met Margo, those thoughts had simmered at the back of his mind, coming to a boil whenever anyone got too close. Margo, he thought, had helped open the door for this—having and keeping Quentin as long as he could, waking up next to him, blowing his fucking mind in bed on a daily basis. 

Maybe this thing with Quentin wasn’t the romantic vision he’d had in mind when ‘Queer Eye’ had first premiered on Bravo. He was eleven, and family had just gotten cable. By some miracle, Eliot was allowed to have a small, ancient TV in his room. He’d watched every episode of ‘Queer Eye’ and ‘Project Runway,’ making sure his parents were asleep or out when he had it on. He’d allowed himself to hope—for two and a half years—that he might be happy as an adult, have a job somewhere like New York or Los Angeles or even Chicago. And perhaps, one day, it would be legal for him to get married, have a husband. He’d wanted that so badly from the first time someone mentioned that could be a possibility. He held onto the notion, secretly, in quiet moments, revealing the things he wanted to no one. He had a piece of neon green poster board tucked under his bed; it was covered in cutouts from his mom’s magazines, a collage of all the domestic trappings he wanted in an apartment somewhere far away from Indiana, where someone loved him best of all. When his father found the collage and set fire to it, he’d watched as his dreams literally burned and turned to ash, fluttering into the air above him on a cold winter’s day just after he’d turned thirteen. A year later, he watched Logan Kinnear bleed out on the street in front of his school. He knew then he was not only queer as fuck; he was also a shitty human being and a dangerous one at that. 

Quentin was a revelation.

He’d never expected anything as wonderful as the stolen moments captured with Quentin, his warmth and goodness, the feeling of his lithe body beneath his hands. Eliot had never been content—not like this. And he’d never been so happy, so _compatible_ with anyone he’d taken to bed. His undergraduate years had been filled with conceited theater boys who were a little too familiar, a little too much like Eliot himself. Quentin was like a culmination of his domestic fantasies, open and ready and so beautiful it hurt to look at him sometimes.

But. 

The morning after he’d romanced Quentin (and fucked him for the first time)—well, _romanced_ was a strong word, but it was fitting, he guessed—he felt those ugly, hateful bits of his history surging inside of him, floating around like bits of charred neon poster board. _You don’t deserve this. It won’t last. Don’t push._

He had shoved that negativity aside. It wasn’t good for either of them. Instead, he’d kept Quentin in bed all that morning, working him over until he was like clay beneath Eliot’s fingers. Then he’d gotten Quentin on his knees and fucked him from behind in heavy, slow strokes, until he came all over Eliot’s sheets. It had been an appropriate way, he thought, to deal with the personal insecurity threatening to boil over and ruin every fucking thing.

Eliot thought this was the best possible outcome. No messy attachments, nothing holding them back from seeing other people. Not that Eliot wanted to see anyone else, when he thought of it. That was… a first. And Quentin was singularly focused on Eliot—for now, anyway. He thought sometimes about what would happen if Q met a nice girl. He had talked to a first-year illusion student for a while at the party that same night. She was cute, Eliot thought. But he had felt nauseated when it was clear she was trying to fuck Quentin. Not that he could blame her—Quentin possessed an exquisite blend of bashful yet arrogant nerdiness and raw vulnerability that _really_ did it for Eliot. It was also vividly clear that Quentin that he was obviously a slutty little brat; an unabashedly eager, satisfying fuck. Always up for it. Okay, maybe that was a little bit of Eliot’s personal experience, but Quentin projected those vibes all over the place, which was why Little Miss Illusions had petted at Quentin’s shoulder and fallen against him, laughing, arms wrapped around him. It would have been _completely fine_ with Eliot if he’d slept with her (minus the sick feeling of dread he knew he’d get over quickly), but he was relieved to see that Q was oblivious as ever and ditched her to climb on Eliot’s lap and tongue-fuck his mouth in front of half of Brakebills’ student population. 

Despite the unease that had crept over him, it had all turned out fine. They’d passed out in each other’s arms early that morning, too exhausted to do anything but make out and vaguely fondle each other, which is exactly what Eliot had wanted.

It fit into the ‘casual’ paradigm. They just hadn’t gotten to the part where they’d started to drift away from one another. If anything, they’d gotten closer. As friends. Well. Quentin did sleep in Eliot’s room now. Exclusively. His stuff was _everywhere_ , but Eliot kind of loved it. There was always at least one black hoodie draped over his chair at all times now that the weather had gotten colder. A dog-eared copy of _The Princess Bride_ sat on his nightstand. (Quentin and Margo were the only people at Brakebills who knew Eliot’s performative disdain for books stemmed from an early reading delay. It turned out that his parents punishing him for a legitimate learning difference wasn’t the right way to turn him into a reader. Having a gorgeous, half-naked boy reading a book out loud was far preferable.) And Quentin’s pillow sat on his bed. It smelled like Quentin. He loved it. Other than Q’s aggressively disorganized presence in his bedroom, their relationship definitely fit firmly into the ‘friends with benefits’ category. Quentin reading to him, holding hands on Sunday afternoons while they lay together in the sun, wrapping his arms around Quentin as they fell asleep… those were all just _extra benefits_. No one had ever specified what the ‘benefits’ actually were when that phrase had been invented. He and Quentin were just especially good at making the most out of a casual arrangement. 

Sure, it had been a stumbling block that he’d been… well, nervous, to put a term on it, to fuck Quentin. But he’d made everything _right_ for both of them. His own first time with a guy had been less than pleasant, so Eliot had leaned into what he _wanted_ to do for Quentin, throwing out all of his worries about seeming too invested. It was very date-like, without being a date, because they were friends and it was _casual_ , and they were both adults who could use a nice evening in preparation for truly mind-shattering sex. It had all gone off without a hitch. And, unsurprisingly to Eliot, Quentin absolutely loved getting fucked. That was goddamn wonderful, especially since he’d spent so long being… _interested_ in Quentin and _not fucking_ anyone else. Margo would call it ‘pining,’ but she’d be wrong. 

He didn’t think on the fact that this was his longest time he’d been fucking only one person since his string of failed relationships in undergrad. And those ‘relationships,’ such as they were, weren’t exactly exclusive. That wasn’t something he did. Q just hit all the right notes, and he was one of Eliot’s best friends. Well, one of the two. It wasn’t a very long list. One of the two safe people in his life. (And Eliot’s life, up until the point he came to the warded walls of Brakebills, had never really felt safe.) It worked. That’s why it had lasted for six weeks now, why he didn’t care about fucking anyone else. Sex was just… another part of their friendship. A really good part. Like, God, just the fucking best. Eliot got a dark thrill whenever he thought about coming home to Q, pulling him on his lap and kissing him until he couldn’t think. Maybe it wasn’t a totally typical fuck buddy situation or a… traditional friendship. But it was working for them. And when Q inevitably wised up and found himself a nice girl he could take home with him, it would all just… work itself out organically. That thought always crushed something in the pit of his stomach, but he sat with the idea every few days so that he could get used to it and make the sick, hurting feeling of it subside over time. 

For now, though, this thing with Quentin was the absolute best thing in Eliot’s life. He wasn’t going to look at it too closely. 

That morning, the morning of Halloween—Brakebills calendar Halloween, anyway—Eliot was simply grateful to wake up next to Quentin, like he always was. He watched Quentin sleeping until he couldn’t stand it anymore and then tugged his warm, sleepy body closer so that Quentin’s skin was pressed hot against his. He threaded one hand through his silky hair, tilting Quentin’s head toward him as he nipped and licked at his softly downturned mouth, parting Quentin’s lips with his tongue until he stirred and made an disgruntled little sound that sent a zing of arousal straight to Eliot’s cock. 

“Mmmph,” Quentin grumbled. But he nuzzled in closer to Eliot, bringing his strong, square hand to Eliot’s jaw, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone, deepening the kiss and making all the sweet little noises that Eliot adored. Quentin’s body was pressed tight against his, hot beneath his hands. Eliot’s cock was stiffening up, pressing into Quentin’s hip. He was already hard just from kissing Q. Eliot licked into Quentin’s mouth, smiling, drinking in Quentin’s sighs, biting at his lips because he fucking loved when Q’s mouth was pink and swollen and fuckable, evidence of Eliot in every word, every breath. He’d be happy to kiss Quentin all morning, hands roaming over his body, feeling his heartbeat, the frenetic energy pulsing just beneath his skin. But Quentin’s thick, hard cock was already nudging against Eliot’s abdomen, his moans becoming more insistent, his hand gripping Eliot’s hair and tugging just the way he liked. 

Quentin pulled away, breathless. His eyes were hazy, distant, pupils wide. “I wanna ride you,” he murmured. “Wanna have you inside me.”

“Mmmmm. Okay. Get in my lap so I can kiss you.” God, he could drink this man, swim in him, never come up for air.

“Yeah. I love kissing you.” He gave Eliot a sheepish little grin and pressed another kiss to his lips.

 _Fuck_ , Eliot felt warm and good and whole with Quentin’s words living happily inside of him. Eliot pulled himself up, shivering as his sheets rubbed against his throbbing cock. He sat cross-legged with his back against the wall, his length heavy and hard between his legs. Arousal thrummed low in his hips, calling to all of the beautiful things Quentin so willingly gave him. “C’mere, baby.” 

Quentin crawled into his lap and looped his arms around Eliot’s neck, one hand automatically going into Eliot’s hair, massaging his head and playing with his curls. He snuggled against Eliot’s chest, his compact body fitting against Eliot’s, lean and masculine and strong. Quentin kissed him again, deep and slow, his hips moving lazily. Eliot brushed his hands down over Quentin’s ribs, soothing him. Quentin sighed and kissed him, rocking his hips and pressing against against Eliot’s cock. Eliot murmured a quick cleaning and protection spell, and he did the tuts to summon thick oil to his fingers. He brought Quentin in close and placed his hand on Quentin’s ass, petting over his hole and pressing his fingers over the puckered rim, circling it before slipping one finger inside. Quentin gasped and brushed his lips against Eliot’s as he pressed down against his finger. “Good, so good,” Eliot whispered. “Getting ready for my cock.”

“Oh— _fuck_ —” Quentin moaned and pressed back onto Eliot’s fingers, taking two inside with ease and biting at Eliot’s shoulder as he worked him open. It was slow and a bit awkward at this angle, but Eliot wasn’t in a rush. He always wanted to savor Quentin, taken in his awed gasps, the light brush of his lips, the roll of his hips, the muscles jumping in his strong thighs or in the dip of his lower back as he came on Eliot’s dick. Q loved this especially—syrupy slow touches in the morning when they didn’t have to be anywhere, Eliot’s fingers inside of him, curling and stretching, pressing him apart.

“That’s it, baby,” Eliot whispered, sinking his fingers in deeper. “You’re doing so well.” He lifted Quentin a little and angled his hips so he could get in deeper.

“Unghh, El—” Quentin groaned, pushing down more, moving up and down, panting against Eliot’s shoulder. “You’re just—just so good at this.” 

Eliot’s breath hitched in his throat, heart pounding, his cock aching hard. There was really nothing in the world better than Q when he was turned on, which was a lot of the time now (Eliot made sure of it). He was fucking himself on Eliot’s fingers, moving his hips, almost frantic. He moved one hand down to Eliot’s cock and stroked it with purpose now, pausing to do the lubrication tut and slicking it up. 

Eliot bit down on his lip, gasping into Quentin’s ear. “You ready to sit on my dick, baby?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said dreamily. “I wanna—yeah—” Quentin pulled himself up, muscles in his stomach tensing as he positioned himself over Eliot’s hard length. Eliot held himself at the base, keeping his eyes on Quentin’s lovely face as he lowered himself down, opening slowly and clenching down. Quentin leaned in and kissed Eliot, hand on the back of his neck, taking Eliot’s cock deeper and whimpering as he sucked on Eliot’s lower lip, his arms and legs and body wrapped around Eliot, holding him. 

“That’s it, baby. Almost there.” Eliot let out a long groan and kissed Quentin, slow and tender, holding the back of his neck, his grip firm as Quentin slowly enveloped him, welcoming him inside. “Fuck, you’re so _tight_.” Eliot groaned. He could barely think, his mind bouncing around from _hottightwetfuck_ and _Quentin Quentin Quentin_ as he rocked up into him, desperate to bury himself fully in the satiny clutch of him.

Quentin let out a little sigh when he bottomed out, rolling his hips just a little, sending jolts of electric sensation, thrumming and rapturous, through Eliot’s cock, through his thighs, through every hungry nerve ending that screamed out for Quentin. For Quentin, always.

“El. God, you’re _so big_ ,” Quentin said with a little laugh. “Feel like I’m split in—oh _fuck_ —”

Eliot groaned, gripping Quentin’s hips to hold him steady. It shouldn’t really turn him on as much as it did. He’d heard the same from well, quite a few people. It was an obvious fact that Eliot’s dick was considerably larger than average; he was used to it at this point. But the way Quentin _said it_ , breathless and almost reverential, like he was desperate for that _big dick_ , drove Eliot _insane_. “You love my cock so much, don’t you?” He buried his face in Quentin’s hair. “You need that big dick all the time.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, voice sweet and small, catching Eliot’s gaze and brushing his fingers through his hair as he lifted himself up and sank back down. “All the time.”

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” Eliot murmured, shuddering and kissing Quentin’s swollen pink lips, sliding his knuckles lightly over one of Quentin’s nipples, making him hiss and move his hips in little circles, brushing his cock against Eliot’s stomach.

“God, so _full_.” He kissed Eliot, wet and messy, and pushed himself up with his lovely, strong thighs, sinking back down again and rocking back and forth, hands roaming over Eliot’s body. “So stretched out. You’re so deep. Feel it all the way up my spine. Feels like I’m… turning to liquid.” Quentin started fucking himself on Eliot’s cock with tiny bobbing movements, pushing up and down an inch or two at the time, tortuously slow. “Want you all the time.”

Eliot let out a quick breath, pressing his lips to Quentin’s shoulder and biting down gently, licking over the smooth saltiness his skin. “Me too, baby,” he murmured, placing kisses over the pale expanse of Quentin’s neck. He wrapped his fingers around Quentin’s cock, making him whine and buck up into Eliot’s hand, chasing friction. “C’mon, give it to me. Make me come inside you. Let me see you fuck yourself on my massive cock.”

“So vain,” Quentin muttered. But he was smiling, the muscles of his abdomen quivering as he pushed himself up and down, falling into a rhythm, clenching down on Eliot as he rode him. Eliot growled, tilting his head back, focusing on the lava hot-core of Quentin. He heard himself saying Quentin’s name, unmoored from the words falling from his lips. 

“Q, baby, I—” He didn’t know what he was going to say. What was he going to say? But now, the most important thing was just… letting Quentin have this, his cock hard and flushed and arched with arousal because of _Eliot_. Fuck. He was the one who got to give Quentin what he wanted, what he needed, come inside of him and make him feel loose and achy and fucked out. He kept one hand around Quentin’s cock, the other arm holding Quentin close. Quentin leaned in and kissed Eliot, pressing his tongue into his mouth and whimpering against Eliot’s lips as he picked up speed and started fucking himself harder, his cock thrusting up into Eliot’s fist. “Hold on, baby, stop for a second.”

Quentin whined, but he stopped, just holding himself on Eliot’s cock, rolling his hips just a bit like he couldn’t keep all the way still. Eliot thought he could probably come inside of Q just like this, with him rocking slowly on Eliot’s cock, barely moving. He slipped two fingers in Quentin’s mouth just to watch him go slack and suck as Eliot did the tut to bring lube to his hand again, grasping Quentin’s length and watching him shudder. He dropped his other hand and trailed his fingers, dripping wet, over Quentin’s neck and down to his nipple just to watch him tremble. He felt the staccato movements of Q’s twitching body against his thighs, around his cock.

“El, please, I wanna—I’m so close,” Quentin said, voice breathy and low. 

“Go on,” Eliot whispered. “Take what you need.” Eliot gripped him tight and started to stroke as Quentin began to ride his cock again, so fucking _in it_ , eyes hooded with lust, with longing, for Eliot. All for him. He could easily come like this, Quentin hot and tight around him, rolling his hips and moaning as Eliot jerked his cock with his lube-slicked hand. But he held back, focusing on getting Quentin where he needed to be, thinking about the lovely curve of Q’s lips, the cadence of his voice as he read, the way he kissed Eliot, so soft, when they woke up side by side, how his eyes crinkled up at the sides when he smiled, a complement to his dimples. God, but he loved all of the little pieces of Quentin, the things that made him unique in a the sea of people Eliot had met and known in his life, the things that made him worth keeping and caring for, the ways he did the same for Eliot.

“El, El, El,” he whispered, moaning and leaning against Eliot’s neck, biting and kissing, mouthing over his skin. Eliot’s body sparked where Quentin touched him, reminding him of the aching need in his own cock. Quentin’s hips stuttered, muscles tensing as he rode Eliot faster, strong hands digging into Eliot’s shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed Eliot hard as he came in an arc, painting a lovely, hot stripe of come over his belly. He moaned into Eliot’s mouth and bit down on his lip, and he collapsed, arms around Eliot, boneless and desperate to be kissed again. Eliot groaned at the vise-like, clenching grip from Quentin’s climax and bucked into him, grunting, unable to still himself. The sensation of those warm, soft lips against his, the clutch and drag of Quentin’s ass as he moaned and rocked his way through the aftershocks of his orgasm—it was too much, too good. He controlled himself as much as he could, but he couldn’t help rocking into Quentin just a bit, just once more, savoring each surprised sound as he thrust upwards. 

“You want me to pull out and jerk off on your chest, baby?” Eliot was close. It would just take a few strokes, really. Eliot wasn’t picky. 

Quentin shook his head. “No,” he whispered, kissing Eliot again, “Come inside me.” 

Eliot’s breath caught in his throat, his cock twitching inside of Quentin. “You sure?”

“Mm, yeah. Wanna feel you,” he said. He brushed his lips against Eliot’s, a tender touch, feather-light over his skin. He deepened the kiss, rocking gently on Eliot’s cock and gasping into Eliot’s mouth as he moved. It felt fucking decadent to hold him like this, drawing out that specific feeling that Eliot had during sex with Quentin—bone-deep longing mixed with the certainty that this was right, this was home. 

“Let me,” Eliot said. Quentin grumbled when Eliot moved his arms, letting Quentin out of their embrace. “Just a second, baby.” He murmured the Sanskrit spell he’d adjusted to fit his own telekinesis, specifically for, well, sex. He lifted his hips, thrusting up into Quentin as the spell took, holding up his legs a few inches above Eliot’s. He was suspended in the air at just the right height to get properly fucked from below. What use was magic if you couldn’t use it for sex?

“It’s like that, huh?” Quentin smirked and ran his hands over Eliot’s shoulders, over his chest, tracing a finger over the line of his collarbone. He looked decadently hot with come painted over his abdomen, his cock still half hard, resting in the air just above Eliot’s lap.

“Yeah,” Eliot said with a shiver, adjusting his hips to get the right angle. “You asked for it.”

Quentin gave a breathy little laugh that turned into a low moan as Eliot grabbed his hips and thrust his cock up into the silken-soft space of Quentin’s body, wet-hot and clutching. Quentin’s hand was on his cheek as Eliot fucked up inside of him, his earnest brown eyes locked on Eliot’s, so filled with wanting that he felt like something might break inside of him. He couldn’t escape that gaze. He didn’t want to. He’d fuck Q face-to-face for a lifetime if it meant he got to have him like this, covered with the evidence of his pleasure, gasping and making little ‘ah-ah-ah’ noises as Eliot fucked into him, picking up his pace and thrusting hard as his fingers marked the flesh of Q’s hips. Eliot had considered turning him over with his ass in the air so he could watch his cock drive into Quentin’s ass, but he didn’t want to pull out, didn’t want Q to turn away. He just wanted to see his face, lips pink and open, hair wild and brushing his shoulders, his brows quirked up like they were when he’d first met Eliot. His mind had fallen into the blank, floating feeling he got right before coming, the tips of his toes tingling and clenching against the sheets, glittering heat rolling up and down his spine as he bucked up into Quentin, hips hitching as his pace grew arhythmic. 

“Come on, El. You’re close,” Quentin said, voice breathy and low. His cheeks had reddened beautifully, his body sitting in the cradle of Eliot’s magic, opening for him, letting him in. “Give it to me.” 

“Fuck, Q.” Eliot gripped him harder and thrust up, frantic, chasing the cresting pleasure that had been building within him. The coil that sat at his center tightened, his whole body pulsing with desire and warmth and unabashed adoration. And maybe this was the only time he could let himself feel it, wrapped up in Quentin, brain straddling the line between consciousness and oblivion. The truth of it was—he had—he’d never felt like this with anyone. Not in his the first hazy months he’d spent couch surfing and waiting tables in New York, not with any of the Shakespeare boys at Purchase, not in Ibiza, not with the most sophisticated sex magic Brakebills third years had to offer. This was just a Saturday morning after he’d spent the evening getting stoned and watching Claudette Colbert movies with Quentin while he practiced his card tricks, sprawled over Eliot’s lap. He’d never known he could get a full body high just from being with another person—every cell lit from within, every bit of him quaking with need, his chest pricking with the sense of belonging that connected him to Quentin, an invisible tether. But that was the only way to describe it. “You feel—you feel so incredible—you’re so—I just—” 

Hazy-minded, cock throbbing, he stilled and did the tuts to release his magic through muscle memory and lowered Quentin down. Q instinctively rocked against him, the drag around Eliot’s cock, the small, shuddering movements sending Eliot over the edge. Quentin leaned in and kissed Eliot hard and hungry as he came, heated bliss sparking through him, releasing him from the buttoned up confines of his existence for a moment, a pleasure beyond anything. His cock pulsed inside the tight, wet heat, and he let out a ragged groan, petting at Quentin’s hair and kissing over his face, hand on his neck, thumb over his Adam’s apple. Quentin pressed his mouth to Eliot’s shoulder, slumping against him as Eliot ran his fingers through his long hair, and moved enough to pull out of him with a small hiss. He whispered a quick cleaning charm, doing the tuts one-handed as he held Quentin’s slack body against his. Eliot felt Quentin’s tongue dart out along the edge of his collarbone and he laughed, making Quentin smile against his skin. 

Nothing had ever come close to this, not ever, feeling safe and warm and held, and all the ways he never felt in his childhood or any time thereafter. He pulled Quentin to him tighter and kissed his forehead, inhaling the scent of drug-store shampoo and clean sweat. If he could control the outcome of his life, ask for the things he wanted and receive them in turn, he’d want this—not just the sex, though he’d put that somewhere near the top of the list. But it was more the feeling he had when he was with Quentin—closeness, comfort, joy. He and Quentin had never had much of any of those things, had they? Maybe they both deserved this. He brushed his hand over the small of Quentin’s back, thinking that if Q felt a fraction of what Eliot did, he’d look back on this time fondly once he’d moved on. He pulled Quentin down into the bed next to him, tucking him beneath his arm, where he belonged.

They lay together, quiet for a while, Eliot absently stroking Quentin’s arm, trying not to dwell on the _feelings_ and emotional shit that tended to inconveniently pop up after mind-blowing sex. Well, mind-blowing sex with Quentin. Eliot hadn’t really dwelled on anything before, not like this. Not before Quentin. Eliot let out a sigh and pulled Quentin in close, reminding himself that he couldn’t get carried away, that getting in too deep would only lead to bad things. Heartache and loss, the sadness he’d seen for himself in all the visions of his future since the day when those youthful fantasies went up in smoke. He couldn’t, ultimately, be what Quentin needed. He faced that fact every day, reminding himself whenever he thought about _more_. He’d just give him what he could while they were in each other’s orbits. For a while, he thought Quentin might have gone back to sleep, but he placed his fingers in Eliot’s hair, lifting it and letting it fall.

“El?” Quentin shifted so that his head was resting on Eliot’s shoulder. He couldn’t see Q’s face, but he knew his eyes were open, watching Eliot. 

“Hm?” 

“I was planning on going home next weekend. My dad is, um, enrolling in a new trial that might shrink some of the tumors, enough to give him… like. Maybe years more. But it’s, um. It’s risky.”

“Oh. Well… that sounds promising. I’m glad, Q,” Eliot said carefully. Quentin had kept Eliot updated on what was happening with his father, but only in short, small doses since he’d tried to get Eliot to help him cure Cancer Puppy. That had been a couple of weeks before… well, before all of this had started. The thing between them. 

“Well.” 

Eliot could feel Quentin fiddling with his hair, twisting it in his fingers. He sighed. “Q, what are you thinking?”

“It’s not important.”

“Sounds important,” Eliot said. His heart rate had picked up, and he swallowed, trying to get rid of the dry, chalky taste that he suddenly felt in his mouth. Fuck. They didn’t really do serious. This was serious. This was—he knew the thing Quentin was about to ask. Probably. He probably knew. It was—God, he _wanted_ to do everything, anything for Q. But the governing parts of Eliot, the things he’d relied on for survival, were filled with icy dread.

“It’s uh. I mean. I won’t be able to see him for a while after he starts the trial. Like. Exams here, and it’s immunotherapy that’ll make him really fatigued. And actually, my mom and her wife will be coming to take care of him and staying in the guest suite for a few weeks, and I’m really fucking awkward with them. And honestly, I don’t know why they’re fucking… like… doing it? My mom is like, sort of fine with my dad. But Molly. Well, she’s… difficult? We like, _really_ don’t get along. And my mom is, you know—”

“A narcissist,” Eliot supplied. He brushed his hand over Quentin’s forearm, pretending that he was… nonchalant. That he didn’t know what was coming. Or that he _did_ know what was coming and he was cool with it. Totally not bothered. It was fine. This was fine. 

Quentin snorted. “I mean. Like three out of five therapists wouldn’t disagree with you. But she’s like… a benign narcissist.”

Eliot had listened to Margo talk about her parents enough to know that there was no such thing. “That isn’t a thing.”

“Yeah, well. Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. I mean.” He took a deep breath in and let it go, huddling in closer to Eliot. 

Eliot thought that if he waited long enough, perhaps Quentin would lose his train of thought entirely. It happened about once every other day that Quentin trailed off entirely, distracted by a totally new thought or some spell someone was showing off or a glimpse of something shiny, like one of Margo’s metallic corset-style tops. Maybe it was just Bambi in those instances; even he had to admit that she could be incredibly distracting (as well as shiny). He thought he could really use a Margo-style interruption right about now. Usually, he fell back on attacking Quentin, grabbing his wrists or putting his hand around the back of his neck and kissing him greedily. Even he knew that would be a shit move to pull in the ‘my dad has cancer’ situation. Plus, he didn’t think he had it in him to go another round, not without magical assistance, and he didn’t want to move enough to do the full spell. Best to ride it out and come up with something on the fly. His specialty.

Quentin, of course, actually picked up his fucking train of thought. He’d probably been stewing on this a _while_ , which meant all sorts of frightening shit for Eliot. He’d sworn off the whole dating thing when he realized how much _easier_ this would be. They weren’t supposed to deviate from their scripts. But. Fuck. Eliot had been deviating quite a bit, hadn’t he?

Fuck. Fuck fuck. 

“I want—um. I want you to meet him. And I was kinda hoping maybe you’d go with me. Like for the weekend. Just two nights. I mean, it’s not like, a super fascinating place to be but. I just. It’s um. It’s been hard? To be here and not see him as much as I did. And the trial is, like—promising. But also kinda invasive. So. I’d like to. Have you with me. If that’s okay. I understand if it’s not because, like, we’re not. You know.”

Something pricked inside Eliot’s chest. Everything in him wanted to run as soon as the words ‘my dad’ left Quentin’s mouth, but there was a nameless emotion welling up inside of him that brought unexpected words to the surface. “Of course. I’ll go with you. Of course.” 

_And what would he say to his dear father regarding his relationship with Eliot? ‘This is the guy I fuck on a very regular basis. I’ve basically moved into his room. Sorry if you expected to bring home a girl.’_ Shit shit shit. He wasn’t good at parents. He wasn’t good at any of this. This wasn’t supposed to be his role, but somehow, he’d been cast in it. Quentin needed him. He couldn’t say no. 

Quentin, being Quentin, needed to dig in deeper, however.

“We can stay in the guest suite. My old room is like, filled with airplane models and storage and my dad’s old treadmill. I could sleep in there? But it’s like. Not super comfortable. The mattress is new, and it’s queen-sized. It was—uh—one of those bed-in-the-box things. Like, you unroll it and it expands. It’s really soft but also like supportive?” Quentin buried his fingers in Eliot’s hair and kissed him gently on the shoulder. Eliot felt like he might rip apart, fully lose his mind. And now he’d agreed to this. And Quentin wanted him to sleep in the guest room _with him_ at his _dad’s house_.

Eliot felt like salt crystals were forming and expanding at the back of his throat, and he couldn’t swallow past them. “Is that the best idea?”

Quentin shifted, pulling back from Eliot a little, probably so he could give him one of those dangerously sweet, earnest looks. Eliot looked at the ceiling and did a tut to bring a cigarette to his fingers. He lit it with a snap and took a long drag. 

“What part of that is ‘not the best idea,’ Eliot?” Quentin’s tone wasn’t quite _pissed off_ , but it was maybe one step away. He removed himself from Eliot’s arm and sat all the way up in the bed. Eliot did a tut to open the window, sending it slamming upwards. He could feel the vibration through the wall.

“The part where I’m obviously not a straight man.” 

Quentin let out an annoyed little huff. “I don’t follow.”

“Picture this,” Eliot said, a bit snippily. “You bring your very obviously not straight male friend home to your dad’s house and move both of your bags into the guest bedroom and then you say goodnight and proceed to go sleep _in the same bed_ with him.”

“We sleep in the same bed every night, El.” 

“Yes. But we aren’t at your dad’s house.” Eliot took another long drag and blew smoke up to the ceiling. He should have been blowing it out the window like he usually did, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He hoped Quentin wouldn’t notice that his hand was shaking. “Do you want your dad to know—”

Quentin scooted to the edge of the bed. Eliot could hear him fishing around on the floor for his boxers, lifting up and pulling them on. Fuck. Eliot was fucking this up. He tried will himself to say something, something better, something a good person would say. There was nothing in him that could. 

“You know I’m out to my family, right? My dad gives zero fucks who I bring home.”

“The reality is different than the… hypothetical.”

“Jesus Christ.” 

“What? You think when you came out as bi to your dad that he thought you’d _actually_ bring a guy home with you? Ever?”

“It’s a logical goddamn conclusion, Eliot.” Now he was actually pissed. But Eliot had a point to make. Quentin didn’t understand, didn’t know that Eliot was _too much_ , too fucked up, too mean and dark and moody. Quentin didn’t _see_ it.

“Is it? And what do you say? ‘Hey, Dad. This is my friend, Eliot. We’re fucking.’”

Quentin got out of bed. He was shoving on his jeans and his shirt. Eliot could almost hear him fuming. He winced. Maybe he’d been a little too direct in the way he reacted. But Quentin didn’t _get it_. That was the crux of the thing. Eliot didn’t do this kind of thing. He never had. He wasn’t meant to.

“I’m sorry—that wasn’t—” Eliot started. 

“Fucking spare me the bullshit, Eliot. It’s obvious you don’t want to do this. Which is fine. I should have known. I—” Quentin sighed. Eliot could hear his foot tapping against the floor. He didn’t look at Quentin because he was the worst kind of coward. “—I just don’t want to do this alone. I thought maybe I didn’t have to.”

“Q—you don’t have to do this alone. I just think—”

Quentin cut him off. “You know, my dad asked me if there was someone special in my life like, a few weeks ago. Fuckin corny as shit. But. I said uh—yes, that it was you. You, Eliot. I don’t need titles or a fucking relationship definition or even, like _monogamy_ to know that—that you’re special to me. And I need you. I thought you knew that. I was scared to like, spell it out for you. But I kept thinking—well, the way Eliot is with me, he’ll probably be okay to be there. With me. I’m not great at like, asking for things. I figured that, for once, I had someone who was, uh. Safe to ask. Guess not. I’ll see if Julia will go with me. I probably should have asked her first, anyway.”

Quentin grabbed his messenger bag and his hoodie and walked over there to the door, opening it a crack. He always left his hoodie in Eliot’s room. Fuck.

“Quentin, wait,” Eliot said softly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah? For what? There’s really, um. A lot to unpack in what you just said. And I don’t wanna be around for it. Not right now. I need to—I’ve gotta do some work. For real.”

“Q, c’mon.” Eliot sat up and saw that Quentin’s face was turned toward the door, curtain of hair hanging over his face. “Come back to bed.”

He huffed. “No. Not right now. I need some—I’m gonna take some space. Both of us probably. Need some space.” Quentin walked out and shut the door behind him. 

***

The only reason for Halloween, as Eliot saw it, was the inevitable slew of parties. And, of course, at Brakebills, The Physical Kids’ Cottage always had the very best party. It had been epic the year before, and Todd had looked so incredibly stupid as fucking Captain Hook that he’d almost spat out his drink three different times. Eliot had been dressed as Apollo because Apollo was hot, and Eliot was hot, and he thought he channeled sun god vibes. He would have gone as Bacchus, but everyone knew that guy was a douche. He’d danced all night and made out with a few different people, and he’d maintained the absolute perfect level of drunk with a side of stoned. He’d also fucked a reasonably hot Nature Kid—no, Knowledge Kid—named Rick or something. It had been a good night. 

This Halloween was turning out to be a heaping pile of shit.

Quentin had avoided him the entire day. Eliot spent most of the day smoking pot in his room, rewatching ‘Midnight,’ Quentin’s favorite of the Claudette Colbert movies he’d somewhat illegally managed to rip onto his computer. After that, he’d traveled downstairs and grabbed a loaf of bread and peanut butter because life was useless and he was a shitty human being who didn’t deserve actual food. After that, he’d put on old episodes of ‘Project Runway,’ just for the sake of nostalgia. He thought he might feel something other than pain while he watched the designers create all this fucking drama for themselves, as they always did. He just felt… worse. He wanted to watch it with Quentin. 

He’d managed to avoid Margo when he was downstairs, and he thought maybe he’d be lucky enough to put her off until the party, but Eliot was not lucky in any way, and he definitely wasn’t mysterious. At least not to Margo. She knocked on his door sometime around noon. 

“El. Your wards are down.” 

“Yeah.” He rested his chin on his knee and shoveled a spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth. 

The door creaked open and he looked over at Margo, bleary-eyed and fuzzy around the edges. “Come in.” 

“What the fuck happened here?” She glanced around at the uncharacteristic disarray of his bedroom. “Did you fuck up and send Coldwater to another dimension while you were fucking him?”

“No.”

“You’re drinking canned wine and eating peanut butter. What am I supposed to think?”

“’S Todd’s wine. It’s not as heinous as I thought it would be. C’mon, Bambi. Have a can.” Eliot was still staring at his laptop, watching as one of the designers had a meltdown over accessories. Hashtag relatable.

“Jesus, Eliot.” She paused and tapped her lovely little foot against the floor. Quentin had done that, too. He guessed he inspired that kind of thing in people. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Quentin’s sweatpants.”

“That explains why they look like a hobo’s capris.” She sighed and walked over to the bed, smoothing out a spot for herself. “The bed’s not covered in come, is it?”

He laughed, a little hollow sound. “Cleaned it.”

Margo hopped on the bed and tugged at Eliot until his head was in her tiny lap, ear resting against the cool, shiny fabric of whatever fabulous leggings she was wearing. Her feet were bare, toenails bright red. “I got a pedicure at that beauty bar place again. Got kinda hammered and ended up hitting on Alice in the kitchen. Whoops. Keep forgetting she has a girlfriend.”

Eliot snorted. “She’s cute. I thought Quentin liked her.”

Margo lowered her fingers into his hair and started separating out the tangles in his curls. After a while, he could feel her braiding one of the longer bits. “You’re a grown man, Eliot. You should know better.”

That caught him off guard. He looked up at her but couldn’t quite focus on the lines of her face. He looked back at the laptop. “Some would say. Wanna smoke? Weed, I mean.”

“I’m not opposed. Maybe later.”

“No chance of that, Bambi. I live in this room now. Only here. I must be stoned to survive it. I’m going to become an ornamental recluse. And you alone may visit.”

“El. I don’t dislike the fainting Victorian lady trope, but I think you might need to go to class eventually. Or eat something besides peanut butter.”

“Hm.” He put his hand over her little foot and stroked his thumb over the pad of her big toe. “Maybe eventually. Not today.”

“There’s a party tonight. We planned it together. You put that costume together to make Quentin jizz himself. My costume _matches_ your costume. I can’t go it solo.”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll something. Shower. Later. Quentin won’t be there anyway.”

Margo undid the little braid and started on another one. “He said he’d be there?”

“Oh?” Eliot’s eyebrows raised a little, and he looked up at Margo again. He expected her to be—what? Disappointed? Judgmental? Sometimes he forgot that she didn’t do that with him. He put his arms out and hugged around her knees. 

“Yeah. He seemed.” She paused. “Not great. Said he was going to hang out with Julia. Which he hasn’t done on a Saturday since you two decided it was the day of the week where you lovingly bone each other all morning and call me in for drinks when you can’t get it up anymore.”

“The best plan of all plans,” Eliot said. “Just not the plan anymore.”

“Eliot. What happened?”

“Quentin asked me to go home with him and meet his dad. Stay the weekend with him. Sleep in the same bed.” 

Margo sighed heavily. “Toss me one of those cans of wine. Todd can get more. Excuse to send him out.”

Eliot passed her a can. “They’re only somewhat vile.”

“Mmm, wow.” Margo took a sip. “Warm rosé. It’s like someone poured sweet vinegar in my mouth. Out of a well-worn boot. That was shoved up someone’s ass. Why aren’t you drinking from you flask?”

“Good question, Bambi. Anyone else would ask why I’m drinking at all. You’re a true friend.”

“Whether I like it or not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Mm. I always love you, you know. Just getting that sappy shit out of the way.” He could hear Margo drinking the wine and could almost feel her cringing at the taste. “But you’re a moron.”

“I’m assuming you’re going to tell me why that is,” Eliot said grumpily. He sat up and called over one of the joints he’d rolled after Quentin had left. He’d been mulling over the finer points of his failings as a human for hours now. He needed to prep for more of the same. 

Margo rolled her eyes after he lit it. She gestured for him to pass it after he took the first drag. Before she spoke, she blew out a small puff of smoke. She did a quick series of one-handed tuts and sent particles of ice to mix with the smoke. The small cloud turned and sparkled in the light before it vanished. “New party trick,” she said.

“Cute. My very own Elsa.”

She took another drag and handed him the joint, pulling him back to her lap and draping her arm over him as he smoked. They passed it back and forth for a while until it was almost gone. Eliot vanished the remaining stub with a snap. “So. I don’t generally like to do this fucking Lifetime movie garbage. But clearly, you’re less emotionally competent than a toddler on quaaludes when it comes to this stuff.”

“Why would anyone give a toddler quaaludes?”

“Beside the point. It’s a metaphor—”

“Simile, I think.”

“Jesus, would you listen?”

“Fine.” He took her hand in his and brushed his fingers over the red nail polish. She was so sparkly, and Eliot loved her, even if she was literally the worst person on Earth.

“I’m not fuckin’ _Julia._ ”

“Thank _God_.”

“ _As such_ , I’m not going to babysit you through your self-deluding horse shit.”

“There’s something wrong with me, Bambi,” he said, doleful, quiet.

“Shush. I’m not done. Fuck, I haven’t even started. So shut your trap, okay?”

“Mm. Okay.”

“You know,” she started. “Huh. Well, I guess you _don’t know_. That’s why you’re in this goddamn mess. Q asked you to go with him because _you’re his boyfriend_.”

“I’m not—we’re not—”

“Eliot. Shut. Up.” She barreled on, apparently unaware that Eliot’s heart was threatening to beat out of its chest. He didn’t think it was just the fact that he’d smoked too much weed, but he was fairly certain it was a contributing factor. “You know he’s in love with you.”

“No.” 

“Yeah, he is. It’s written all over his stupid puppy face and his big puppy eyes. He practically swoons when you walk in the room. When you’re touching him, it looks like he’s _high_. And he didn’t fuck that girl—the illusion girl—what the fuck was her name—”

“He didn’t know she was hitting on him. So your point is—”

“Oh, he knew. She was desperately trying to get him to take her upstairs. And she was _cute_. Really fucking cute. And Q was blushing. He looked like a red mango while she had her hand halfway down his pants. But he told her he was with someone, and he told her really nicely he thought she was beautiful but he _wasn’t single._ I heard the whole fucking thing.”

“You didn’t tell me—”

“I _thought_ you two dummies had finally talked. But I’m now fucking guessing you didn’t.”

“He was saying that as an excuse—”

“When does Quentin lie? About anything? Whenever he tries, he stutters about ten times the regular amount and fiddles with his hair so much that I’m worried he might pull it out.”

Eliot sighed. “Maybe.”

“I’m right. You just need to accept that.”

“But that’s not what—that’s not what we’ve been—that’s not what he and I talked about.”

“Oh yeah? And what was that talk like? And did you have your dick in him when you talked? Because that’s not how you do these things from what I understand.” 

“He asked if I wanted to keep things casual. I told you. It seemed like the best idea—”

“Yeah, you told me while you were making love to your ties. Remember what I said?”

“No. I can’t remember everything you’ve said when your language is so vivid and multi-faceted. Boggles the mind.” 

“I said you can’t just treat him like your boyfriend if you’re actually keeping it casual. Which you didn’t. Our little Q is an emotional creature—and _so are you_.”

“Am not.”

“El, you’re like Joseph Gordon Levitt in ‘500 Days of Summer.’”

“Sacrilege, Bambi, take that back—”

“When I met you, I thought you were a cold bitch like me, but you’re the warmest bitch.” She shook him a little and ruffled his hair.

Eliot grumbled. “No—”

“Stop it. I’m not finished. You obviously _want_ a relationship. And Eliot, that’s _okay_. Especially with our favorite little nerd. He’s a sad little nerd right now, so you need to fix this.”

“Bambi, I don’t know how. I can’t. I can’t be what he needs.” Eliot paused, thinking of the hurt in Quentin’s voice that morning. “I’ve never _gone home_ with anyone before. Quentin’s dad wouldn’t want him with someone like me.”

“Then he’s a goddamn idiot.” She finished the dregs of her canned rosé and made a disgusted noise. “And if he’s anything like Quentin, he’ll fucking love you. Q didn’t grow up where you did. He’s a blue state Yankee. His mom is _gay_. Or whatever. Queer. I don’t know. She fucks her wife. And you’re not meeting that psycho bitch, anyway.”

“She sounds horrible.” He rubbed his face against Margo’s leg. Jesus, he was so high.

“You’re stoned as fuck, you snuggly little lemming.” 

“So stoned.”

“Y’know, Q’s dad is probably a lot more worried about brain cancer than his son sucking your dick, El. He’ll probably approve of his son having any kind of functional relationship. Q’s fucking girlfriend from college sounds like a nightmare dipped in a personality disorder.” She kept playing with his hair, and he shivered into her. He’d thought for the past year and a half that Margo was the only person he’d ever really _need_. They could get off with other people, but he really thought she’d be the one person for the rest of his life. It was bizarre and terrifying, like stumbling forward into some dark haunted forest (God, he’d been letting Q read to him too much), to even _want_ someone else, someone not half as _safe_. 

“He said he…” Eliot swallowed hard, burying his face against Margo’s leg again. “He said his dad asked if there was someone special in his life.”

“Oh God. That sounds like a total Coldwater move. Ted sounds like an older Quentin who’s really into planes instead of portal fantasies.” 

“He told his dad about me.” He sighed, considering for the first time that it was an act of courage for Q to tell his dad about his not-relationship with Eliot. Fuck. He’d just gone for it, hadn’t he? 

“He said you were his ‘someone special,’ didn’t he? That’s unbelievably cheesy. And precious. And _gross_.” She lifted Eliot’s hair and let it fall. It hadn’t been styled today, so she could do what she wanted. “You know, it’s okay to want to be someone special.”

“Mm.” He watched the pictures moving across his laptop screen, distanced from the beats of the show. Something was happening, and he was watching it. He just… couldn’t process it anymore. His brain marched along, trying to sort out the things Margo was saying. 

“Okay. Tough question.” Margo put her hand on his cheek, brushing a thumb over his stubble. He hadn’t shaved. He might never shave, ever again.

“God. If you must.”

“I don’t want to. But apparently I fucking must. How do you feel about Q? Shit, I mean. I’ve never had to even ask that before about one of your boys. That says something.”

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. He reached for the peanut butter, but Margo slapped his hand away. 

“You fucking do know. Grow a pair of tits and admit it.” 

Eliot groaned. “Bambi, I just want to get stoned and watch TV all day. Or forever. Either way. I’m sure Todd could bring me food.”

“Honestly, that’s not a bad idea. Could we get a message to him? It’s such a pile of shit that my phone signal is so spotty here. Fogg gave me some trash about needing to protect the place from monsters or whatever. Lying _ass_. It’s a fucking dystopian level of goddamn control. Henry fucking Fogg and his goddamn newspeak.”

“His what?”

“This is why you need Quentin.”

“No. I’ll be fine. Quentin’s better off without—” Margo flicked the back of his neck. “—hey, _ow_.”

“Don’t speak for Quentin. Fuckin’ tell me. Is Q different from all the boys you did the dick handshake with last year?”

“Fine. Yes. He’s… somewhat different.”

“Good. That’s a start. Is he fucking _special_? Is he your very own _special someone_?” 

Eliot was quiet, watching the images flash before him, the faint taste of peanut butter still in his mouth. There was a film on his teeth. If Quentin were any other guy, Eliot would have carried on like it was a regular damn day. He’d be prepping his costume and fixing up the Cottage, creating a signature drink for Halloween. When the party started, he’d make sure to hone in on a new boy and flirt a little, come back around later, acting like it was an accident. Later, he’d go in for the kill. Nine times out of ten, it absolutely got him laid. The one time in ten, the guy in question usually _thought_ he was straight. But that tenth guy usually ended up coming _back_ to the next party at the Cottage, looking for Eliot. It was easy. Eliot was masterful. But he didn’t want some random guy. He wanted Q. 

“No,” Eliot said.

“What the fuck?” Margo flicked him again. “Stop fucking lying to me. And yourself. Okay?”

“Okay,” Eliot said, miserable. “He is. He’s special. He’s different. I caught feelings. Now what? I fucked it all up.” 

“Lucky for you, Coldwater is probably listening to Fiona Apple and pining over you right now. If you think he wouldn’t take you back, you don’t know dick squat about your boy. So. You are going to get your head out of your fabulous ass. You are going to get your King Bitch costume on. You’re going to sober the fuck up. And you’re going to help me turn this fuckin’ house into cheesy Halloween party central with an 80s horror flair. When Q shows up with Julia, I’ll distract her, and you drag Quentin to wherever and get your daytime soap opera on. Confess your love, beg his forgiveness, blow him on the patio in front of Todd. Whatever you have to do. Then you take him to bed and bang him so hard he forgets Fillory, and you tell me every goddamn detail tomorrow.”

Eliot sort of wished he could react appropriately to Margo’s casual accusation that—well, that Eliot felt a certain way about Quentin. He just didn’t have the energy. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to, El.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You sure as fuck better be clear with your boy. I’m tired of delusional Eliot and I’m really goddamn tired of sad sack Eliot. And I don’t want get to know mopey bi disaster Quentin Coldwater. Actually, we all already know that Quentin, and we don’t need more of him. Okay? Get over your baggage. Evolve.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” She tugged at his hair.

“Ouch.” He looked up at her. She was still fuzzy around the edges.

“El, you need to take a fucking shower. You smell like a grow house mixed with peanut butter and Quentin. It’s not as charming as it sounds.”

“Duly noted, Bambi.”

***

Even though Margo had assured him that Q was going to show up, Eliot had his doubts. The party wasn’t in full swing yet, but Quentin was always around when Eliot and Margo were setting up. Q had confessed that he liked to watch Eliot work with his hands while he was working at the bar or casting with Margo to create glorious party décor. Quentin would usually have a few drinks with him and Margo while he watched them work, being occasionally useful in a clumsy sort of way. After his third drink, Quentin would start grinning uncontrollably, his eyes turning to little crinkles, and he’d get _handsy_. By the time the party was in full swing, he’d start whispering dirty things in Eliot’s ear and casually cup his ass, feeling him up with zero regard for propriety. Eliot _loved it_. They’d disappeared midway through the past five parties, and Eliot gave zero fucks that people said he was ‘losing his edge.’

If Eliot lost Q, he might just stop functioning. It already felt like someone had reached inside of him and scrambled all of his working parts. He stood behind the bar, listless, mixing a mediocre gin and tonic for Kady. He couldn’t be bothered to pull out the chilled limes or the good gin. That was fine. It was Kady. She didn’t give a shit about good alcohol.

He tossed a handful of ice in her drink, almost as an afterthought. “Here you go.”

Kady looked him up and down, scowling. She was often scowling. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Nothing,” Eliot snapped. He raised an eyebrow, taking in Kady’s leather jacket and black jeans. “You’re supposed to be wearing a costume. Margo’s going to kick you out. I certainly don’t have the energy to do such a thing, but you’re disrupting Physical Kid tradition.”

“I am wearing a costume.” She sipped at her drink and apparently didn’t notice that it wasn’t Eliot’s finest work. Good. Mission accomplished. “And I’d like to see her try to kick me out of my own house.”

“What are you? An angry youth? Extra from ‘Grease?’”

She laughed. “You really are in a shit mood. I’m Pat Benetar.”

“Oh,” Eliot said. To her credit, she was wearing a white, boat neck shirt hanging off her shoulders and tight pants of some kind. Her hair was… maybe bigger than usual. That was something. Different from her usual Urban Outfitters bog witch get-up. If he were going for Pat Benetar, he would have gone full bodysuit, but Kady was Kady. It couldn’t be helped.

“You still just look like yourself,” Eliot said. Because Eliot felt like being an ass. 

“That’s the point. She’s a bad bitch, and she had fuckin’ fabulous hair.” She looked him up and down. “And you are?”

“Decorative and fetching.” Eliot poured himself a gin over ice and knocked it back in a gulp, shuddering only a little. He could stomach a little bad gin. “A king, I suppose.”

“Should I get your boy to come cheer you up before you pass the fuck out?” 

“Oh, darling. He’s not ‘my boy.’ Though fabulously depressed, I am a practiced lush. You needn’t worry about me.” He patted her hand. Eliot looked suspiciously at the gin. Why were his emotions leaking? 

“Does this have anything to do with sad Charlie Brown Quentin? He was moping in the kitchen this morning—he stared at his toast for like ten minutes before throwing it away. Get your house in order.”

Eliot’s face went hot, and he clutched onto the edge of the bar. His glass started to wobble, the ice in it shaking. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Get yourself together. Don’t let your magic slip.” She glanced at his glass, apparently unimpressed and insufficiently respectful of Eliot’s ire. “This is me being friendly. Just FYI. We’re all part of the same fucked up family, Waugh. Fix your shit.”

Eliot let out a heavy sigh, and hung his head, catching sight of his white knuckles against the wood of the bar. “Sorry, I—”

“Look, it’s fine. I get it. But you haven’t cornered the market on fucking childhood trauma—”

“I had a marvelous childhood,” Eliot said, haughty. This was really not the kind of conversation he wanted to have with anyone, let alone Kady. Where the fuck was Margo? He scanned the room but didn’t spot her tiny, precious head.

“Fucking spare me. You might be fooling some of these other tools, but I know a wall when I see it.”

“Why are you—why do you even—”

“I asked Quentin where you were this morning, and he told me you two _weren’t dating_ so he had ‘no fucking clue.’ That ‘not dating’ thing of is a load of garbage since you’re always stealing all the good food and giving it to him like a bird trying to impress its mate.”

“And you care because?”

“Alice cornered me and told me to talk to you. She just can’t string two emotional words together without turning her arm invisible or catching something on fire. I don’t know Quentin well. But she’s friends with him for whatever reason. And we’re all Physical Kids, so.” She shrugged, like it made total sense.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, I guess.” He eyed her warily. He’d never asked for _extra_ friends.

“Take care of your nerd,” she said, turning away to find Alice. 

Eliot kept watching for Quentin as people started to trickle in. He spotted Margo’s magnificent sweep of hair—she was manning (womanning) the door, rejecting people with glee if she felt they didn’t have enough of a costume. Truth be told, he didn’t recognized many of the non-physical students. He vaguely recognized a few boys he’d hooked up with the previous year. One of them ambled over and gave Eliot a saccharine smile. Ah, yeah. The reasonably hot kid from last Halloween. He was… fine. Strawberry blond hair and blue eyes and nice, tight body. Not bad in bed. Robert? Rick?

“It’s Rodrick,” he said before Eliot could stumble over his name. He was dressed as a… firefighter? No. Jesus. A sexy Boy Scout. Tight khaki shorts and clinging shirt, with a banner full of badges. “Don’t worry. I’m over you ignoring me for the past year.”

“I wasn’t aware that I had done any such thing,” Eliot said carefully. He racked his brain, attempting to recall any encounter he’d had with the boy since last Halloween. He vaguely remembered Rodrick trying to hit on him a second time in an exceptionally creepy way.

“Well. How awkward for you,” Rodrick said, smirking. “I just came over for a drink.”

“Drinks are in the kitchen. The bar is reserved for Physical Kids only.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but Rodrick seemed determined to act like a dick, so why shouldn’t Eliot return the favor?

“I do feel like I deserve a mojito, though. Please? For an old friend?” He fluttered his blond eyelashes. He really couldn’t remember why he’d fucked this guy. Cute enough. Ugh. Before Q, Eliot wasn’t really that specific about where his dick went, he guessed. Case in point.

“Fine.” Eliot lazily muddled some mint, keeping his regally annoyed look and projecting ‘no I won’t fuck you again’ vibes as hard as he could. He poured in a generous helping of simple syrup and two shots of cheap rum because he did not give a single fuck how it tasted. He topped it off with soda water and shoved it at Rodrick. 

“There’s no lime.” Rodrick sounded put out. Good.

“Oh.” Eliot gave him his best ‘fuck off’ smile and handed him a whole lime. “Looks like the bartender is in need of a fucking break. Here you go.”

Rodrick stared at the lime in his hand in astonishment as Eliot trotted off in Margo’s direction. Rodrick and the lime would have been hilarious if Eliot hadn’t fucked everything up with Quentin. Very possibly permanently. The whole of the outcome depended on Eliot’s ability to sort his shit out, and he didn’t fully believe in his ability to accomplish that. Not when it meant telling Quentin how he felt. Which was… a lot. It was fucking heavy. He could easily get lost under the weight of it, the choking feeling of wanting something so badly, something he never really thought he could have. He’d deluded himself into thinking this was easy, that being ‘casual’ would spare everyone’s feelings. He was wrong. It was just a way for Eliot to shut himself off. He saw that with grim clarity now. He knew Margo was right. He needed to talk to Quentin, apologize. Tell him he was wanted and cherished and that Eliot might like to wake up next to him every day for the rest of his life. Jesus. God. Where did that thought come from? Shit. Eliot didn’t really need to be _that specific_ , did he? But he did have to say _something_ , something true. That meant having to face the fact that he was fucking terrified. Eliot had spent so many years of his youth living in pure terror that he didn’t sit with his fear anymore—ever. He buried it along with all the other things that were dangerous to feel. 

He took a swig from his flask. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough, but he also needed to remain un-drunk enough to actually talk to Quentin if he did, in fact, show up. He put his hand on Margo’s shoulder. He watched Margo yell at a group of timid first years for a while before whispering in her ear. “Bambi, Daddy’s freaking out.”

She put her arm around him and drew him in without even looking up. It was weird that she made him sometimes feel small and cared for in a way that he’d never felt as a child. He’d never _say_ that to her because she’d never let him live it down, but he knew she felt the same way. Like they’d grown from the same root, and they flowered best when they were together. “You’ll be fine, El. Look, Todd is dressed as a unicorn. Honestly, he makes it too easy.”

“Oh, good God.” Eliot glanced at the unicorn in question, silver horn on his head with a rainbow wig and a skintight silver shirt. “That is really… something.” 

“If any point tonight you think to yourself, ‘Wow, I’m freaking out’ or ‘Holy shit, I’m a total jackass’ or ‘I was an idiot and didn’t realize I had a boyfriend,’ just think to yourself that you could be _Todd_.”

“Fair point, my love.” A visceral, cold dread crept along inside of him, expanding and sitting at his center. He’d have to talk to Quentin. He’d be here. Or he wouldn’t be here. And that would be worse.

“No snark?” Margo crossed her arms and eyed a group of first years that looked suspiciously underdressed. Everyone looked underdressed compared to Margo. She looked like a boss bitch Cleopatra. That’s how Eliot thought of her, anyway. The names associated with their costumes totally escaped him. King, Queen, something something, Fillory. It had been meant to impress Quentin, and Eliot felt mildly pathetic wearing a crown and royal garb for a boy who wasn’t there.

“You’re absolutely correct on all counts. As usual. And I’m slowly going insane so I’m not firing on all cylinders at the moment, Bambi.”

“What? You’re going nuts because you have an actual shot at being happy with someone?” Margo took his arm and walked him to the window nook where they regularly held court. There were two first years sitting in the nook. She gave them a look, and they took off.

“So rude, darling.” He was aiming for his usual air of dignity, but his voice was thin and reedy, and he felt out of sorts in his own body. She pulled him down and arranged him against the wall, sitting across from him and tangling her legs up with his. The diaphanous material of her dress draped over his legs and fell to the floor, a puddle of blue and teal and purple, matching the stones in her crown. 

“Now we can pretend to be above it all—”

“We are above it all,” Eliot corrected.

“Honey, you are in the all of it right now,” she said. “Debased by human emotion. The best I can do is help you pretend that you match the glam bitch mask. And we can sit here and look for your boy.”

“Not my boy.”

“You know he is. He’s fuckin’ gone on you. Has been since day one. He’s like one big heart eyes emoji. And vice versa. Frankly, it’s sickening.” 

“You’re just jealous you don’t have a nerd.” 

“Maybe not _yet_.” Margo winked at him. 

“Who’s your nerd prey? Do tell. This is much better than pining.” 

“I’ll tell you if you share your dirty Quentin secrets. You won’t tell me how he is in bed or give me _any details_. And I wouldn’t say I’ve been dying to know because that sounds desperate. But it wouldn’t be a lie. I am… interested.”

“Bambi, I never kiss and tell.” Eliot smiled pleasantly, trying to smooth over the growing dread as he looked through the crowd, hoping to spot that familiar sweep of hair.

“You absolute liar. I know about half the dicks on this campus.”

“Fine. How do you think he is in bed? Tell me, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

“Jesus. That’s not how we play this game.”

“Hm. New game. This is better. More fun.” The truth of it was that there was something in Quentin that Eliot didn’t want to share. Being with Q was intimate in a way that felt entirely new. He’d wanted to save every bit of it for himself, like maybe if he shared something, it would all vanish like a dream after waking. Fuck. He really was gone on Quentin, wasn’t he? 

“Ugh. Fine. Hm. He’s gagging for it at all times. Logical conclusion based on how many times I’ve seen him stumbling out of your room in various states of confused undress.”

“One point for Bambi.” Eliot took his flask out of his pocket and took a swig, attempting to banish the image of half-naked Quentin Coldwater out of his head. ‘Confused undress’ was certainly a good way to describe it. 

“He always needs something in his mouth.”

Eliot shrugged. “Frequently.”

“Has his hair long expressly because he needs it to be pulled.”

“Have _you_ slept with Quentin?” He smiled and took another sip. That was a thought. 

“Not yet.” She tapped her chin, considering. “Totally bitchy when he doesn’t get his way but needs to be told what to do.”

“He’s totally bitchy. More assertive than he looks.” Eliot wanted to say more. His gut was also twisted in knots, and he felt like he was going to jump out of his skin. He put his flask down and saw that it had started shaking. It lifted about a millimeter off the cushion before he snatched it and took another drink. 

“Oh, I need to know more about—” Margo turned to look closer at the crowd of people gathered by the door. “Fuckin’ speak of the devil. Go get your man, El.” 

Eliot spotted him right away, even though Quentin was clearly trying to blend into the crowd, his beautiful mouth turned into a frown. Julia was next to him, touching his arm, saying something and pointing at someone. 

“He’s not wearing a costume,” Eliot said, eyes still locked on him. Q was wearing his black jeans. Well, one of his many, many pairs of black jeans. And—who would have guessed—a black t-shirt and a black hoodie. And then he opened his mouth. “Ah, wow. Talk about low effort.”

“I’ll only let him stay because of you. You know that, right?”

“Oh trust me, I do. I’d be kicking him out myself if the situation were any different. Or at least, kicking him up to my bedroom.” Eliot tried to will himself to move, but he was glued to the spot. “The illusion work is good. Q’s illusions are better than you’d think.”

“I know. I’ve seen his illusions. You really are smitten, aren’t you? Talking about how cute his magic is?”

Eliot didn’t answer that. Margo knew. He didn’t need to rehash the same territory they’d been reviewing for the past eight hours. He needed to talk to Q. That’s what he needed to do. And he was going to do it. He was absolutely, fully intent on it. And then Quentin looked at him. At first, his eyes looked soft like they always did when he spotted Eliot. Then a mask of hurt played over his features, and he turned away, walking toward the back patio. “Fuck.”

“Look, I’ll take care of Julia. You deal with your idiots-in-love bullshit. Okay?”

Eliot groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, carefully avoiding the silver eyeliner that he’d carefully selected for his outfit. When he lifted himself up, he felt like he might crumple to the floor in a heap of bones. He was that sort of tipsy that felt more like a hangover, and his stomach was churning angrily. Margo shouldn’t have let him drink. No, he shouldn’t have let himself drink. That was a thing… he needed to fix. A fucking work in progress. All of him was. God, growth was fucking painful. And Margo had pulled a whole bunch of it out of him in the space of a couple of hours. He could do the rest piecemeal, somewhere along the way. 

Margo gave his arm a squeeze and drew him into an embrace. He kissed her forehead and took her in for a moment. She smelled like coconuts; he loved her beyond measure. She swanned off and effortlessly took Julia by the arm, immediately complimenting her costume (Sherlock Holmes (?)) and talking to her about some meta-comp spell Margo was interested in parsing for her thesis. The party was crowded now, and he had to pick his way through gaggles of costumed Brakebills students. A guy—a third year, maybe—tried to stop him, but he pulled away gracefully and gave him a quick smile. When he made it to the door, Q wasn’t outside. He stepped out into the cool night air and smoked for a while, listening to the night bugs and watching the moon as it rose over the trees. 

He sighed and shakily made his way back inside and upstairs to check if Quentin had slunk off to bed. His door was left ajar, and his bedside table light was on, but there was no Quentin. The bed was made, the room eerily neat. All of his mess belonged in Eliot’s room now. He nearly slumped down on the wall, but he sighed and hobbled down the stairs to his room, grabbing the anti-hangover potion Josh had made for him. He took a long swig, feeling the clearing effect almost immediately. He was still tipsy-ish, just clearer than he was, with none of the violent headache that had been brewing. He could do this. He was a fucking magician. He’d survived Indiana. A few years on his own in New York. He’d actually graduated from college. He’d made it to Brakebills. He’d met Margo, and he’d found Quentin. Fights were just a thing he wasn’t used to. Fucking up in relationships wasn’t something he did because he’d never really been in one. Not a real one. 

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he ran smack into a pile of tulle in the approximate shape of a human. “Fuck!” He startled. “I’m sorry! Fuck!”

“Hey, are you okay? You look a little... out of sorts. I mean, still beautiful but—are you going to talk to Q?” He looked down and saw the ocean-blue eyes of Alice Quinn looking up at him. She only did eye contact when she was drinking. At all other times, she was buried in a book or in Kady’s hair. 

“I’m... shitty. I can’t find him. He disappeared out the back. And... why is everyone suddenly interested in this? I really, truly thought no one gave a single shit.”

Alice looked at him with a goofy smile, unfocused and shiny-eyed. She was well and truly wasted. Kady was a good influence. “You’re our friends. Also, we all live in the same damn house, you silly thing.” She poked him on the arm. Alice didn’t know how to social, but she was really very charming. “Poke poke.” She giggled again.

She was dressed as a... God, what was she wearing? She looked like a macaron. Despite, or perhaps because of, the pink tulle skirt and the exceptionally tight lace turtleneck that she somehow managed to paint onto her considerable natural assets, he felt a wave of affection for her. She was all hard edges wrapped in schoolgirl chic, and tonight, that whole _lewk_ she was going for was dialed up to a thousand. All these magicians, they all had their walls, didn’t they? (Except Josh, he thought. He was all open borders.) 

“Well, I thank you for your inquiry, Alice. I’m glad you’ve seen fit to bless me with the gift of your friendship.” He put a hand on her shoulder.

She giggled. “You sound like you’re being sarcastic. Are you? I _really_ can’t tell.”

“No, honey, I’m not. I was a little jealous because Quentin thought you were pretty, to be perfectly honest. But I adore you. I do. You’re as precious as a fancy cake at a princess birthday party.”

“I’m a—a—I don’t know. I just had these clothes. I match with Todd, though. Don’t I?” She was laughing even harder now, falling against him. She pulled herself together for a moment and patted Eliot on the chest. “You know, Quentin’s cute, but we’d be a… total garbage fire. We’re a lot better off as friends. Trust me.”

Eliot smiled. Alice really was a darling. “He said something similar.”

“Totally unsurprising. We’d be a mess. Plus, he’s so hung up on you. I’m no psychic, but that would be a disaster. We all need someone a little different from us. Q and I are… too much alike in some ways, I think.” She shook her head in an odd little way, a smile playing across her lips. “Have you seen Julia? She might know where he went.” She looked him up and down. 

Eliot shook his head. “Julia doesn’t like me very much. I’d rather find Q solo.”

“Oh. Well. She’s not a Physical Kid. She just doesn’t get us.” Alice flipped her hair over her shoulder. She leaned into Eliot again, a little wobbly. “Charlie always says Knowledge Kids don’t know shit.” She blushed like she’d said something very naughty, and it was adorable. Charlie Quinn was a very cute nerd who was sadly very straight, not that Eliot had a single dirty thought about him last year. Only a few times, really. He couldn’t be blamed.

“Charlie’s right,” Eliot said. “Physical Kids are the true magicians. But I do need to get Miss Wicker on my side if I’m to have anything to do with Q. And I don’t know if I will—”

“You’ll win her over. I swear. Everyone _loves_ you.”

“Oh, my sweet angel. You haven’t talked to anyone outside of this house, have you?”

Alice snorted and started laughing again. “Oh my God. No, I haven’t! Just Julia. Oh hey—there she—oh. _Oh._. Wow.”

“Huh,” Eliot said. “Margo did say she’d distract her.” Margo had been right about that. Julia was _very_ distracted. Margo was sitting on Julia’s lap in the window nook, and Julia’s hand was most of the way up her dress. They were sharing a drink and talking with their heads together, and Julia lightly pressed a kiss to Margo’s lips. And—holy shit—when the fuck did this start happening? She must have done ground work to pull this off. Julia wasn’t someone to just randomly feel anyone up. Or was she? Eliot had no idea. Julia was an enigma wrapped in a boring mystery Eliot didn’t care to solve.

“Looks like she’s plenty distracted,” Alice said. “Go find Quentin. He could be in the kitchen. He told me he was grabbing a beer for a friend when I saw him.”

“Will do. Thank you, darling.” He pulled Alice in for a hug because she really was a creampuff under all those spiky bits. So precious. 

“Are you supposed to be Prince Charming? You look like—so beautiful.” Alice’s sea-blue eyes were all sincerity. 

“Not quite. But I appreciate the compliment.” 

Alice gave another giggle and a little wave before she stumbled off in Kady’s direction. 

Eliot spared a glance at Margo, who was wrapped up with Julia, talking in low tones. It could help his case with Julia if she got friendly with Margo. It looked like they were already pretty friendly? Fucking confusing and not worth contemplating right now. His stomach kept doing little flips as he picked his way through the crowd, searching for any evidence of his floppy-haired, nerdy, petulant, kind, disastrously gorgeous Q. Quentin wasn’t in the kitchen when Eliot peeked around the corner, and he wasn’t in the dining room, and when Eliot circled back around to the front door, Quentin wasn’t there either. He sighed and took another sip from his flask, heading for the stairs. He could do this later and, besides, his weed wasn’t going to smoke itself. Just as he mounted the first stair, he caught sight of a distinctive shock of hair the darkened hallway next to the stairs. It was Quentin—and Quentin was talking to _someone_. 

He saw the quick flash of Q’s smile, his illusion-made fangs bright in the semi-darkness. When Eliot stepped closer, hand on the bannister, he saw the object of Quentin’s attentions—familiar strawberry blond hair and that fucking Boy Scout costume. God. Eliot froze for a moment as his brain caught up to what was happening. Rodrick was leaning into Quentin, hand brushing against his shoulder. Eliot’s stomach twisted, and he gripped the railing so hard that his fingers hurt. Rodrick inched closer to Quentin as they were talking, his hand now on Quentin’s back. An uncomfortable prickle worked its way down Eliot’s spine. His fingers buzzed with the promise of magic, fueled by the pain he’d been carrying all day.

He needed to walk away. He had to walk away.

But fucking Rodrick was looping his arm around Quentin’s waist, leaning in and whispering in Q’s ear. Quentin started to pull away, stumbling backwards into the wall. And—yeah, no. This was not happening. A hot spike of anger sliced through Eliot’s center, dark and ugly. He stepped toward Rodrick, hand raised, and a wave of magic rolled out of him, stormy and sharp and scented like ozone, pushing Rodrick several feet away from Quentin. Eyes wide, Rodrick stumbled dropped his drink, watching it spatter across the floor in mute horror. 

“Eliot, what the fuck?” Quentin’s lovely eyes met his. Eliot’s heart sank. This wasn’t the plan. “Put your hand down. C’mon.” 

“I—I—ah—” Eliot stuttered, regarding Rodrick and his wide-eyed fear like he was looking at something from very far away.

Quentin stepped over and took Eliot’s hand and held it in his. “El, you’re shaking.”

He felt Quentin put his hand down by his side. He hadn’t meant to—he didn’t want to hurt him. But he knew, with sickening certainty, that if he’d been slightly less sober, Rodrick would be on his way to the infirmary right now. Or worse. He clutched his stomach and staggered back against the wall, blinking his eyes, trying to steady himself. It had been years since this had happened—before Brakebills. The hedges who had helped him when he first moved to the East Coast had taught him about setting intentions for his casting, making sure the circumstances were correct, especially when using telekinesis that came as naturally as Eliot’s did. He’d hurt someone badly in his first year of college, and he’d almost overdosed that night, trying to get visions of Logan Kinnear out of his brain as he waited to hear if the guy he’d pushed down the stairs with a flick of his wrist was okay. Eliot sank down to the floor, regal garb likely snagging and ruined. But he couldn’t stand. 

“Hey, uh, Rodrick,” Eliot heard Quentin saying. “I really think it’s best if you leave.” Eliot heard footsteps walking away and felt Quentin’s hand on his elbow, felt him pulling on his body to get him to stand up. He wrapped his arm around Quentin gratefully and let him walk him over to the stairs.

“Let’s get you to bed, El,” he said, cool but not unkind. 

“I can explain—he was, he was hitting on you—I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, and I can take care of myself, thanks.” Quentin sighed, pulling Eliot up the stairs and walking him to the door of his room. He pushed Eliot’s door open and walked Eliot over to his bed, helping him slip off his shoes. “What the fuck are you wearing?” 

Quentin’s brows furrowed as he examined the red brocade fabric and purple silk shirt and the fucking custom crown Margo had gotten for him. “I’m the… High King of Fillory. Margo said you’d like it. I’m guessing I didn’t make the right impression.”

Quentin just sighed. “El,” he said gently. “You can’t have—you just. Can’t have it both ways. You can’t say shit to me like you did this morning—and then, like, swoop in to rescue me.”

Something inside of Eliot’s chest seized, sitting tangled up inside of him like rusted metal. He could taste it in his throat, that feeling, a thousand times worse than when he’d first spotted Quentin that night. He’d fucked up. He just kept fucking up. He tried to sit up, but his head was still spinning. “No, Q, I’m sorry. I know.” 

“You know what I mean? You can’t tell me you don’t want anything other than a hookup in the morning and then shove some guy against a wall because he tried to kiss me.”

“He tried to kiss you?” 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he did. I’ve met him a few times now through Julia. I guess she was trying to set me up with him? I had no fucking idea. He’s a douche. But like I said, I’m a big kid. I can take care of myself.” He paused for a moment, looking Eliot over. “If you’re okay, I’m going to go downstairs and go to bed. You need to sleep this off.”

Quentin turned to go, and Eliot couldn’t bear it. “Q, wait. I wanted to make everything—make it right.”

“It wasn’t right from the beginning, El.” Quentin was still turned away when started talking. “I did a lot of thinking today, and I, like, I just—I—I can’t do this if it’s not a relationship. A _real_ relationship where you meet my family and we go out on dates and we figure out what we want out of being together and actually talk about it. I said this morning I didn’t really need a label, and yeah, I think I meant that. But, um, I think I do need the commitment piece? The thing where we’re not freaked out about communicating, where we’re actually adults about what we need. And I don’t—I’m not sure you’re ready for that. Or if you even want it at all. It seemed like you were, like, getting there. I thought you were. But I realize I should have actually fucking asked. Instead of assuming it was like, serious. And springing my shit on you. So. That’s it. I’m going to bed.” Quentin made for the door, and Eliot’s heart felt like it was filled with shards of broken glass. 

“Wait, Q.” He croaked out the words, still not able to sit up. “Q, I—please stay. Please. Please let me talk to you.”

Quentin cast a look back at him. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.” His eyes were red and watery, dark circles beneath them. Somewhere along the way, he’d let his vampire illusion spell go, and now he was just Quentin, dressed in all black, looking hurt and scared and still beautiful, so beautiful. “For you or me. It’s just better to have a clean split—be adults—”

Eliot finally managed to force his body upright. He put his feet on the floor, but he didn’t get up. He knew he’d fall over, both from the sudden expenditure of magic earlier and his haggard emotional state. The mix of weed and cheap alcohol wasn’t on his side, either. But. “No, I need to—”

“You need to go to sleep, El. So do I. It’s been a long day. I should have just crashed in Julia’s room instead of coming to this fucking party. I’ll get you a glass of water and see if I can get Margo up here. You probably shouldn’t be alone, but it can’t be me, not right now—”

“I love you,” Eliot blurted, still lookin down at the floor. There was ash there from the various things he’d smoked. He hated things to be untidy. “I’m falling in love with you. I don’t. I haven’t.” He glanced at Quentin again, quick and furtive. “I’ve never done this. I never thought I would. Be serious about anyone.”

Quentin didn’t say anything. So Eliot barreled on, still looking down at the floor, littered as it was with cigarette ash and the detritus of his lost day.

“Margo has repeatedly called me on my bullshit. But I’ve been too much of a coward to tell you how I feel. Because.” Eliot took a breath in, let it out. “Because I’m scared. I know I’ll fuck everything up. Or you’ll find someone better. Or your dad will hate me, or he’ll hate you for being with me. It was just—everything this morning made me afraid. There. That’s all. I said it.” But Quentin didn’t respond, so Eliot filled the silence. “I want to come to your dad’s with you. If you want me to.”

When Eliot finally looked up, Quentin was frozen in place, looking like someone had drained all the blood out of his face. “But if you don’t want—” Eliot said. “I mean if you told your dad I wasn’t coming, that’s fine. But if you do want me there…” Eliot bit at his lip. His whole body felt hollowed out, and he could not shut the fuck up. “I understand if you don’t, and I’m just. So fucking sorry.” Why couldn’t he stop talking? What was wrong with him? His hands were open on his knees, palms up. He just kept looking at his fingers, the silver rings he was wearing, feeling like the whole room was about to float away around him. “I don’t have a family I go home to. I don’t know how any of this works. And I just fucked it up by telling you we should be—”

Quentin closed the space between them—Eliot watched his worn black shoes cross the floor. He took one of Eliot’s hands in his, running his fingers over Eliot’s rings. “Hey, El.”

“Hi.” Eliot squeezed his hand but didn’t look up. God, there was so much in his life that he’d conquered with a quip and and a smile an a fucking fabulous outfit, and he couldn’t even look into Quentin’s eyes. “I’d like to be not casual at all. I’d like to take you to dinner. And have an anniversary. And go to the city and walk around Central Park.” He felt like he might spin away. But there was a power in that terrifying, flighty feeling—warm and certain, it brewed deep within him. Even if it didn’t work, he’d finally done the hard thing. Quentin had helped him shed some of the disguise he wore; in a way, he’d taken the ashen pieces of Eliot’s vision board back and glued them together just enough to see the shape of his dreams again. Even if it scared Eliot. Even if it was terrifying.

“I’d like that,” Quentin said. “A lot.”

Eliot looked up at him, and he saw that warm, sweet grin, the dimples that made him weak in the knees. He cupped the side of Quentin’s face, brushed his thumb over the lovely cupid’s bow of his lip. “Yeah?”

“I mean. I spent the day pretty pissed off but. I’m like, feeling better now.”

“Why’s that?” A smile crept over Eliot’s face. He brushed his hand through Quentin’s hair; he leaned into Eliot’s touch, eyes closed.

“No reason.” Quentin brought his lips to Eliot’s, just brushing skin against skin, the mere ghost of a kiss. “I love you. Been thinking about that for a while, I guess. So. That’s better than like. The alternative. I thought you didn’t—that you didn’t want me. Not how I wanted you.”

“How could I ever not want you?” Eliot slipped a hand beneath Quentin’s shirt and pulled him in close. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in his eyes, beading against his lashes. 

“Hey—it’s. We’re okay,” Quentin said, pressing a kiss to Eliot’s forehead. His lips were warm and soft. His hair brushed across Eliot’s face.

“Are we?” Eliot kissed over Quentin’s collarbone, his hands still exploring skin, resting at the small of Q’s back. “I want to be. I just want you.” Eliot looked up at Quentin, head pressed to his chest so he could hear Q’s beating heart. “Not casually. Like not at all casually.”

Quentin laughed, the sound rumbling against Eliot’s ear. “Are you asking me to go steady?”

Eliot had a few quips sitting right at the tip of his brain, but he pursed his lips and let his fingertips wander over the hot skin of Quentin’s back. “Yeah. If you want. I’ll even try to keep my hands off of you in front of your dad.”

“Don’t keep your hands to yourself too much. I like them on me.” Quentin traced circles over the back of Eliot’s neck, and Eliot sighed, letting go of the anguish, the pain. 

“Yeah? You can tolerate me after this morning?”

“I very much more than tolerate you. You should know that. And you’ve like, already seen me in like, a Coldwater depression spiral. If you can handle that, I can handle, um, whatever. Just about anything. Granted that you like, actually tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Okay,” Eliot said, pressing his lips to Quentin’s shirt, to the warmth of his chest beneath. “I’ll try.”

“I think it’s worth it, right?”

“Yeah. I do.” He ran his hand’s over Q’s sides, fingers tracing up over his ribs. He rested his palm right at the top of his ribs, brushing one thumb over one nipple. He listened to the hitch in Quentin’s breathing, savoring the sound. He was so desperately, overwhelmingly happy that he hadn’t fucked this up. He might keep fucking up; they both would. But at least they’d both have the chance to make it right. He brought his mouth to Quentin’s shirt, kissing over it until he found the other nipple, mouthing at it through the fabric, rubbing and licking over it until Quentin was trembling. He needed this, the reassurance of Quentin’s body against his, all his delicious little noises, the gasps and sighs, the brush of skin on skin, all the things that made the most sense to him.

“You look—” Quentin sighed and threaded his fingers through Eliot’s hair before he could finish the thought. “You look hot as fuck. God, I wish this didn’t happen today. I wanna enjoy my teenage fantasy of serving the High King of Fillory.”

Eliot laughed against Quentin’s chest, resting his cheek there for a moment, toying with the waistband of Quentin’s jeans, popping the top button open. “It’s not like the costume is going anywhere. Bambi got it made for me. So it’s mine.” When he looked up, Quentin’s eyes were hot and dark. “You may serve the High King any time you wish.”

Eliot palmed Quentin’s length, already hard through his jeans. Quentin pushed into his hand, breathing hard. “I’d like that. Fuck. I’d like that a lot.” Quentin sucked in a breath, hissing as Eliot slowly unzipped him, pushing his boxers down and exposing his already hard cock.

“Your High King agrees. He especially enjoys serving his subjects.” Eliot licked up from the base of Quentin’s cock to the tip, swirling his tongue lightly over the head and sucking it into his mouth for a moment before letting it go with an audible pop. “And this particular subject’s cock is, perhaps, the best in my kingdom.” He licked around Quentin’s tip again, kissing down his length and back up again, taking in Quentin’s soft, gorgeous sounds like music. “And the king would very much like to suck this beautiful dick—”

“Oh my God, you’re so weird—” Quentin spluttered, but he pushed his cock forward, pressing between Eliot’s lips and nudging against his tongue. Quentin was tracing his fingers over the crown in Eliot’s hair as Eliot sucked him down again, relishing the weight of Quentin’s thickness against his tongue. Eliot could taste a hint of saltiness, a drip of precome. The taste spurred him on; he groaned and took his full length, back to his throat, sucking him down expertly and pulling back off again. 

He flicked his eyes up to Quentin. “The king requests—”

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin said, cheeks adorably pink. “You know, we should probably talk, or like—”

Eliot shook his head and grabbed Quentin’s cock again, smirking when he gasped. Eliot could talk; that was fine. For once in his life, it wasn’t the most horrifying thing he could imagine. But. “I’d rather not. The _king_ would prefer to select this fine—ah—strapping lad for the most noble duty of a good fuck. By royal decree, I’d like to move all talking to tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, stifling a little laugh. “I wouldn’t want to—um—disappoint the king.” Quentin moved his hands beneath the double-breasted red brocade jacket Margo had made for him, helping Eliot shimmy out of it as Quentin pulled off his shirt and slid off his pants, stripping Eliot quickly and laughing as he used his telekinesis to hang the kingly ensemble over the back of his chair, smoothing out the wrinkles, before pulling Q down on the bed with him. He set the crown on the bedside table. 

“That’s uh—you could wear that.” He nodded toward the crown.

Eliot held Quentin close, kissing him and laughing and nipping at his full lips. He wrapped his legs around Quentin. “Might fall off with what I have in mind.”

“Yeah?” Quentin kissed him, hot and desperate, and God, but he wanted this man, his compact, body pressed tight against his, cock hot and hard against Eliot’s. He rutted forward and let out a hot breath against Eliot’s cheek, kissing him up and down the line of his jaw. “What was it that you had in mind?”

Eliot’s thoughts were loose and meandering, hands buried in Quentin’s hair, lips pressed to his over and over, barely breathing in between. “I want you to fuck me,” he murmured. 

“Yeah?” Quentin swept his fingertips over the shell of Eliot’s ear. “You sure? We could do it when we’re like… less emotional? Or I dunno? I—uh—”

Eliot lifted a finger to Quentin’s lips. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah. I do. I really, really do. I’ve been thinking about it since—since that first time—” Quentin kissed him, tender and slow, tongue pressing between his lips, his hands running over Eliot’s legs and up over his sides. “You like it that way, too?” The way he said it was so sweet and uncertain, like Eliot would refuse Quentin anything, like anything he could want would be unwanted, like he hadn’t _brought it up_ repeatedly. 

“Yeah, baby. I do. It’s been… a while, but I really do. I know I’ll love it with you. I want you. Just… fuck me senseless.” He nipped at Quentin’s earlobe, his hips hitching up, moaning with pent up desire as his cock rubbed against Quentin’s. 

Quentin whimpered, hips stuttering against Eliot’s. A lovely red flush spread from his cheeks down to his chest. “I don’t know—don’t know if I’ll do it right. I wanna do it right.”

Eliot ran his fingers lightly through Quentin’s hair. Eliot loved him, all the kind, darling things about him. His Quentin, wanting to make it good. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Quentin pulled away to look into Eliot’s eyes, smiling at the endearment. “Yeah?”

“Just make me feel good. You always do that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Quentin brought his lips to Eliot’s, like he was desperate for it. And what could Eliot do but wrap him up and give him exactly what he wanted? Quentin put his hands in Eliot’s hair, raking his nails gently over his scalp, sending shivers down the column of his spine. He was so gentle, pressing kisses over Eliot’s ear, down the sensitive line of his neck. Eliot was normally more forceful, giving and taking exactly what he wanted. He’d built his reputation on bringing people pleasure, but it was on his terms—the best way to protect oneself was to control the outcome of the situation. In sex, that was hard to maintain, but Eliot had made an art of it. He’d never had a single complaint. With Q, he’d been vulnerable from the start, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Here, right now, bone-tired and laid bare, he let himself drift, closing his eyes and meditating on the feel of Q’s lips, his strong sturdy hands, the clean, sweet scent of his skin. He let himself float, carried by the sensation of Quentin’s mouth, his hands, caressing him. Quentin settled himself in the cradle of Eliot’s hips, lifting up his legs around his torso. He was exposed, vulnerable—but safe, like he was finally home.

“You can get me ready, baby,” Eliot murmured, kissing along Quentin’s jawline. “It’s been a while. You’ll have to remind me how to take it.”

Quentin let out a breathy laugh. “Okay, okay,” he said, like he was talking to himself. Eliot smiled, shivered a little as Quentin ran his hands over Eliot’s body, careful and soft, exploring and almost reverent. “I just wanna touch you first. I wanna make you feel good.”

“That’s good. So good, baby.” Eliot has been with plenty of guys, but none of them have been like Quentin. He was almost shy at first, almost hesitant. But he gained confidence as he touched Eliot, fingers running over his cock, thumb brushing gently over the tip, sending a glittering warmth through Eliot’s thighs and hips, making his core thrum with need. Yes, this was what he wanted. This was everything. Sturdy hands move over his abdomen, thumbs brushing over his nipples until he began arching up, gasping.

Quentin made a pleased sound. “I learned something new. Not sex, but.” Quentin’s hands worked over his thighs, fingers pressing into tense muscles and releasing them as he murmured a the words of a healing spell Eliot recognized, mixed with something else. 

“Keep doing that— _oh_ fuck, right there—“

“You sure I shouldn’t stop and just like. Talk about my feelings?”

“Plenty of time for that. I want to hear everything. But right now—” Eliot sighed as Quentin’s strong fingers soothed over the sore muscles around his hips. He hadn’t even known how shitty he felt until Q started touching him. “—keep doing that. What—oh my God— _what_ are you doing?”

Quentin grinned. “It’s a spell I got Julia to help me with. It’s a healing cantrip, but we combined it with a mending spell so it fixes micro tears in the muscles after the, uh, trigger points release.”

“So clever, Q.” Eliot watched him, wide-eyed, as he massaged Eliot’s muscles.

“I’ll do this all over, sometime when your dick’s not like. Super hard.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll take it any time.” Quentin licked between his lips again, hovering over his body, barely touching his chest, his cock. He was so hard he had smears of precome on his abdomen, his dick twitching with each movement of Quentin’s body. Eliot kept his lips pressed against Quentin—his jaw, the hollow of his neck, the hard, masculine planes of his chest—as he lazily summoned his lube from the bedside table.

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “Doing it the old fashioned way?”

“Yeah, just—c’mon. This is the good stuff. Use it.” 

Quentin rolled his eyes and unscrewed the lube, propped up awkwardly on one elbow. “Now who’s a brat?”

“Oh, I never said I wasn’t.” Eliot snaked his hand down Quentin’s body and gripped his cock, relishing Quentin’s trembling muscles and the slight jerk of his hips. 

“Hey, that’s for later. I’m supposed to be in charge—”

“I didn’t say that, either.” Eliot stroked Quentin’s cock until Q was shaking above him. 

“Yeah, you’re going to need to stop if you wanna. You know. Not have me come all over you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Coldwater.” That idea had its own appeal. But Eliot let go and kissed Quentin as he reached down and spread him open, pressing the pad of his finger against his hole, circling it before pressing inside. 

“Baby,” Eliot said breathily, hips arching up as Quentin’s finger slid inside of him.

“Good?” Quentin worked his finger in slowly, pressing up and exploring, slick with lube, sliding easily back and forth. 

Sparks traveled up Eliot’s spine, a new ache blooming in his cock as Quentin’s finger glided over his prostate. “So good.”

Quentin slipped a second finger inside, working it in with profound tenderness, gasping and watching Eliot’s face with hunger. He moved his lips over Eliot’s chest and chin, pressing lips to his ear and telling him out amazing he felt, how smooth and hot he was inside. Eliot closed his eyes and let time fade away around him, centering himself on the softness of Quentin’s lips, the way his strong fingers crooked inside of him, pushing in and opening him, building his desire in small bursts, like adding handfuls of kindling to a growing flame. He let himself pant and moan and wrap his legs around Quentin’s thighs. At some point, Quentin slid a third finger inside of him, kissing over his cheeks and the line of his jaw and whispering in his ear how well he was doing, how beautiful he was, all the things Eliot usually said. And for once, Eliot could let himself believe that those words were true, that perhaps, he deserved love as much as anyone else. Quentin dipped down and took Eliot’s cock into his mouth while he fucked into him with his fingers, moaning against him, making him buck up and press into his mouth. He let out a low groan and grabbed a fistful of Quentin’s hair, his mind blanking out for a moment as heat licked through him steadily. 

“You ready?” Quentin was red-cheeked and wild-haired, gorgeous. Eliot loved him.

“I am. You want me like this?”

“Yeah. I wanna see your face.”

“So romantic,” Eliot said as Quentin held his legs, running his hands over them. Eliot adjusted and moved a pillow beneath his hips, recalling that this was how it was with Quentin the first time, how he’d been afraid that everything would change between them—when it really already had, from the moment Eliot followed him upstairs that first night.

“Your legs are stupid long.”

“I grew them just for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Quentin dipped down and kissed him, his cock firm against Eliot’s entrance. “Okay, I’m— _oh_ —”

Eliot braced himself as Quentin pressed against his rim, the head of his cock pushing until it slipped inside. Eliot gripped at Quentin’s back, his fingers digging into soft skin as the slight burn gave way to a pleasant stretch. 

“You feel amazing, baby,” Eliot whispered, grateful that Quentin was so close to him, their bodies pressed almost flush as Eliot stretched around him. 

Quentin made a punched-out groan as he slipped in further, pressing forward, propelled by his need, muscles twitching and shaking as he held himself inside. He moved slow, so gentle, more gentle than anyone Eliot had been with in a long time, painfully fucking slow—divine and torturous. The aching fullness melted into pleasure, pulsing through Eliot’s body until Quentin buried to the hilt, hips jerking softly against Eliot’s ass.

“El,” Quentin whispered, holding himself as still as he could, cupping Eliot’s face and pressing kisses along his jaw, behind his ear, over his throat. Quentin gripped Eliot’s cock and stroked lightly. Eliot gasped and placed one hand at the center of Quentin’s chest, legs wrapped tight around him. Quentin started to rock into him, their lips locked together.

“So good,” Eliot murmured, the back of his neck prickling as Quentin sobbed and pressed a kiss to Eliot’s shoulder. 

“God, this is—” Quentin’s hips stuttered and he pulled back, snapping forward and groaning, sending sparks rushing through Eliot’s hips, his stomach swooping as Quentin thrust into him again. “Oh, El—you feel incredible.”

Quentin fell into a rhythm, shivering and making lovely, shocked noises with each movement. His chest was charmingly dappled with red, nipples hard, and hair swinging back and forth as he fucked into Eliot, filling him with a sweet ache, cock grazing against his prostate as Quentin found the right angle and gripped his leg. Quentin kept his eyes locked on Eliot’s, and fuck, he looked so stunning, eyes dark and wild. He started moving jerkily, thrusting in harder, his breath coming fast, his noises taking on a desperate pitch. Eliot could feel him trying to slow down. 

Quentin groaned and pressed a wild kiss to Eliot’s lips, biting at him. “I’m not—not gonna last—”

“S’okay, baby. Harder—wanna feel you come—”

Quentin gasped, one hand gripping Eliot’s leg, the other at his hip. He started moving more forcefully, driving into him, pushing Eliot’s mind toward the edge of oblivion. Eliot closed his eyes, listening to the filthy, slick sounds of Quentin fucking into him, focusing on the intense pleasure of opening himself to someone he loved, letting himself be known. Quentin came with a shout, cramming himself inside of Eliot and collapsing against him, kissing over his neck and up to his lips. 

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured, sliding out of Eliot and working his lips down over his body, and spreading Eliot’s legs.

“Q, I—” What was he going to say? He had no idea. “ _Oh_ , my _God_.” 

Quentin had hooked one of Eliot’s legs over his shoulder, spreading him apart and licking _into_ him where he was already loose and wet. Quentin groaned against him, an obscene sound, pressing kisses against Eliot’s hole and licking over his puckered rim. Bolts of heat ran through Eliot’s cock each time Quentin’s tongue entered him, with each lewd grunt and moan. Eliot’s fingers gripped at his sheets, hips arching up, loud groans escaping his lips. Just as he met the edge, his brain fuzzing out, thoughts floating and unmoored, Quentin slipped two fingers inside of him, twisting and pressing in as Q readjusted and moved up to take Eliot’s cock into his mouth as far as he could, the head nudging against the back of Quentin’s throat. Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed as his cheeks hollowed and he sucked Eliot’s cock in earnest, fingers working in and out. Eliot’s toes curled against the bed, hips lifting, his cock thrusting up into the molten wet heat of Quentin’s mouth. He’d been so close the entire time Quentin had been fucking him that it only took a matter of moments until Eliot was groaning loud and long, cock pulsing and spilling into Quentin’s mouth. Eliot watched Quentin, his face wet and shining, humming appreciatively as he swallowed everything Eliot had to give. 

Quentin rolled to the side, panting as Eliot dragged him up the bed and rolled Quentin into his arms. Eliot placed a kiss behind his ear, fingers tangled in Quentin’s hair. “That was so fucking good, baby.”

“Mmm. Good. It was—God—that was, mmm. Yeah.” Quentin did the tuts for the cleaning spell, murmuring the incantation. The sheets were warm and clean around them, their bodies sanitized and quite a bit less sticky. It wasn’t as good as a hot shower, but it would be fine for the next few hours. That was a nice thought—get Quentin in the shower, wash his hair, watch the rivulets of water trail over the muscles in his back. One thing would likely lead to another, but that was a thought to finish in the morning. 

“I love you,” Eliot said. 

Quentin smiled, pressing his nose into Eliot’s cheek. “You should.”

Eliot wrapped him up, holding him close. “I do.”

“Good. I love you, too.” Quentin kissed him and waved his hand, turning out the lights. “I know… none of this is easy.”

“Worth it, though. Margo’s going to expect a thank-you parade.”

Quentin was quiet for a while, messing with Eliot’s hair, snuggling into his neck. “You really um.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to—I mean it’s fine if you do—but—okay, I mean it’s kind of hot but—”

“ _What_?”

“You don’t have to get on my dick every time I, uh. Try to talk to you.”

“You noticed?” Eliot smiled. It was really a winning strategy, he thought. He guessed he could give it a rest. Most of the time.

“I noticed,” Quentin said, laughing. “As far as like. Distraction techniques go, I’m a fan. But. If you need time to think about something, just tell me. Okay?”

“I’ll try,” Eliot said. 

“Mm, that’s good.” Quentin yawned. He was quiet for a while, fingers still drifting through Eliot’s curls. “Do you think Julia and Margo—”

Eliot laughed. “She said she was going to distract Julia while I talked to you. I guess she figured out the best way to distract her.”

“Uh, yeah. I did not see that coming.”

“Margo has a way of doing that.”

“You don’t say. I mean, I think Julia’s been hanging out with her while we’ve been, uh.”

Eliot didn’t know how Quentin could be _shy_ after their—was it make-up sex? Define-the-relationship sex? Eliot didn’t know. Either way, it was _filthy_ , and Quentin couldn’t even say the word. “Huh. I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Either pleased or like, scared. Maybe both. Mix of the two.”

They talked about nothing in particular until Quentin drifted off, half sprawled over Eliot’s body. Eliot joined him soon after, his old dreams reshaping themselves into something new as sleep welcomed him and he breathed in the scent of Quentin’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you like my stuff, follow me at: [@hoko-onchi-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes) on Tumblr. I have more chapters coming in my long fic, and I'm eight chapters into writing my rom-com Queliot fic for The Magicians Happily Ever After event, coming in September. Subscribe to my profile if you're interested in having it sent straight to your inbox!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes


End file.
